


The False Sense of Fancy Free

by ClickerClaws



Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, Fantasy AU, Father Figures, IronStrange, M/M, Medieval AU, Slow Burn, Supreme Family, The Supreme Family, aka Peter has 2 dads!!!, middle ages AU, that comes later ;)))
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-24
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2019-07-16 06:20:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16080242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClickerClaws/pseuds/ClickerClaws
Summary: Peter is a growing, soon-to-be sorcerer, living a happy life as the apprentice of Stephen Strange, until unfortunate odds end him up lost and at risk in the perilous forest, where he is rescued by knights and taken to King Anthony of Ironsaven. The king welcomes Peter as his very own, giving him a life Peter never thought he’d even begin to imagine.Peter now has one foot in two worlds; a powerful sorcerer, keeper of magic and defender of his dying people, or as a highly respected member of royalty, a brave, fair, and benevolent warrior of a thriving kingdom. The time will come where he will have to choose one life over the other.





	1. Prologue

**T** he sorcerer had no business roaming the desolate forest grounds at this time of night, the sun long gone behind the great oaks of the wood. The cloak’s end which he bore hovered gently over the moss covered roots as it contrived a soft sound no louder than the crickets chirping in the undergrowth.

 

Usually, when he most needed, the magic being would search the pleasant forest for ointmental herbs or a quiet spot to meditate, sometimes to even clear his mind, but now, while the moon was bright, he felt it necessary to take a leisurely walk through the wood, no longer wishing to close himself up in his cottage for the night.

 

The breeze surged, crisp with pine as he followed on, no sound of another soul in the acres beyond. Not far from here were the dwellings of his friends and fellow sorcerers, as it had been for centuries. The humans of the non-magic-wielding type resided in the kingdom, and those who were not, had to manage. That’s what it had come to be decades ago. The memory still made the sorcerer and those like him shutter with hateful grief, for in what universe would that chain of heathens ever come to end, and just how merciless will the next link be?

 

He tilted his gaze to the sky, hearing it rumble softly with oncoming storm clouds, and supposed he should soon return to his lonely cottage for the night.

 

He felt a heavy tug around his shoulders upon turning around to head home, abruptly shifting his gaze to the cloak trailing behind him to find it straining away from the sorcerer’s desired path.

 

“Can’t you hear the storm upon us? You hate the rain so why are you resisting?” the man grunted down to the sentient article, watching it flap desperately in the wind until he felt it pull harder and harder, causing the sorcerer to stumble on his feet. It took a great deal of strength from both the cloak and the man but by the end, the master gave in to the article’s nonsense game of tug-of-war and let it drag him to wherever it so pleased.

 

It wasn’t long before the sorcerer at last found out exactly where the thing was taking him. He began to make out ragged silhouettes against the dark landscape, a place which was once both a beautiful sanctuary and a horrendous battlefield: The Ruins. Though the man was not present during the tragedy that had happened here, it still tugged at his soul to trod on such land.

 

He could hardly stand still for a moment to acknowledge the memory before the cloak surged forward impatiently, and he supposed that, maybe, the abominable thing had taken him there for a reason.

 

The mage peered around the eerie scenery with a strange mix of remorse and curiosity, careful with each step as to avoid any big or small rock falls. Keeping pace with the cloaks’ remindful shifting, he followed it forward with slight difficulty as he continued to climb rocky slopes and hop down from jagged ledges. His stomach churned the moment he stepped down to the ripped and tattered grass, his boots meeting side-by-side with a half-buried, decomposing rib cage. Dismissing the feeling of grim nausea piling in his gut, he flinched away only for the sentient cloak to jolt him back into its desired direction.

 

It was around that exact time that the sorcerer had heard it; sobbing. The soft, painful sobs of an unidentifiable creature muffled somewhere among the rubble, its wails almost too quiet to hear over the winds rising in volume as the dark clouds neared. His stomach tumbled, natural instinct prompting him to pick up the pace, afraid to lose the sound in the bustle of the storm.

 

Once the location of the cries were pinpointed, the man cautiously lit an illumination spell, weary of the tactics some predators and beasts use to lure prey in by taking on the impression of an injured youngling. Steadily, he crouched down to the mountain of debris, and found that whatever had been crying was for certain trapped in the layers of rune and rock. A new feeling of danger and concern urged him to shuffle closer onto his knees, using both hands to shovel chunks of stone out of the way.

 

Once he’d inched about halfway into the barely fitable chasm, the man realized he was entering what was left of the nearly collapsing sanctuary, and though there was no roof left in sight, there were still a few feet of stone walls surrounding him… and, of course, a wailing figure curled up in the corner of the room.

 

It was shuttering so terribly so, the man’s heart about dropped at the sight of it. Upon approaching the poor soul, he recognized it as a human, like him–that, or one of many monsters who hold a close resemblance of one–but only a child. He was in rags, ripped and vulnerable to the cold, clinging helplessly to a pillar in the pocket of the collapsed roof. His face was hidden away behind his arms and completely unaware of the new personage in the abandoned ruin, even with the golden light illuminating from his palm.

 

The sorcerer assessed the stability of the jagging stones merely hanging by a thread above him and the boy’s head, and the robed man was certain this was no place to hide from a storm, and that whoever’s child this was, he had to get him out of here. Sure, it wasn’t his responsibility, of course, but it wasn’t right to leave such a situation, not now that the cloak around his shoulders was writhing to reach the child.

 

He caught a fistfold of the fabric in his hand in attempt to shut it up, which only made a _swooshing_ noise just loud enough to arouse attention from the young boy. The crying had stopped immediately. The sorcerer noticed this, and found that two, wide hazel eyes had been staring back at him.

 

This didn’t cause the child to relax, if anything, his breath quickened and he was clinging tighter to the pillar, watching the man closely as if he hadn’t seen another being before in his life. The sorcerer himself was frozen in place, seeing the intense fear in the young one’s eyes. His voice finally found its way out of this throat.

 

“It’s not safe here. Come,” he demanded simply, intending to be stern, not gentle. When the boy hardly moved, the man breathed dryly, growing irritated that one can’t obey simple orders. He carefully stepped forward, which did more bad than good; the kid started scrambling deeper into the pocket of debris, causing some dust and bits of rock to fall to the ground. The master staggered abruptly to a stop at this action, his heartbeat taking another dive as his concern resurfaced. He waited stiffly until the small cloud of ruin settled, wincing at how much more difficult this situation had become.

 

With another breath, he moved twice as slow, this time lowering down to his knees in attempt to meet the child at eye level. The boy appeared to have nowhere else to go with his back up against whatever wall was left, eyes unblinking as the stranger got closer and closer to him. The man stopped a short distance away from him before speaking again, a lot gentler this time.

 

“It’s alright,” he reassured, “Don’t be afraid, I won’t hurt you.”

 

The boy was squinting, most likely in response to the yellow light shining too closely to his face. Noticing this, the man proceeded to dim the spell, seeing the young one’s eyes soften as he did. He could see the expression in the boy’s features change, no longer full of fear but of curiosity as he kept his gaze distracted on the palm of the sorcerer.

 

It was clear the child had never seen anything of this sort, but he appeared to be very very young, and likely had not even reached the fourth year of his life yet, so new discoveries must have been common, as the magic-keeper observed. He held still as the boy’s grip on the pillar loosened to move closer, hazel eyes positively beaming with new wonder.

 

The sorcerer could feel his heart beat steadily in his chest at this odd yet not uncomfortable silence, watching with bated breath as he saw a small hand reach out slowly but everso cautious. Then, he felt the tiny fingerprints meet with his gleaming palm, exploring the surface with so many unasked questions that could only come from a child so small. He didn’t have the heart to pull away when a second hand reached out.

 

The mage felt the need to warn the boy of the dangers of staring at a bright light for too long, but the words couldn’t seem to escape his throat. Even moving felt impossible. It was as if his brain had turned off, refused to respond to the nerves in his hand, itching to move, to pull away and leave the perilous chasm whether he took the child with him or not, but all he could do in that moment was watch as the small boy closed his eyes and rested his temple into the center of the shining hand, visibly relaxing as he welcomed in the warmth from the  ray of light.

 

The feelings building up in the man’s chest, he couldn’t quite read, and they definitely were not familiar to him, neither were they unwelcomed. He seemed to have lost all sense of time as he felt the small hands cling onto his own like a lifeline, the nearly dried tears cold against his skin.

 

It was as if the sun itself had come to meet the lost and abandoned child on that fateful night, coming to rescue him from the dark, threatening to engulf him into further loneliness. It was a sight to behold, and the sorcerer was none the wiser. What he was witnessing could only be interpreted into a waste of time and a risk of further danger. Impatience gripped his stomach and yet, why was his hand refusing to pull away?

 

Finally, his head bolted upright to the heavens as a crack of lightning cascaded across the dark skyscape, followed by a deep thunder, louder and much closer than before. Snapping out of his… distraction, the sorcerer attempted to stand, but found it difficult seeing that there was now a toddler gripping tightly onto his robes.

 

Great, now _he_ was the pillar.

 

With another heavy sigh, the man managed to scoop up the child reluctantly, finding he was considerably light for his small size.

 

“Alright, that’s our que. Gods, you’re a clingy one.” he heaved, peeved that the boy in his arms was grabbing just about as much fabric as his tiny hands could hold (including a fist-full of chain from the Eye of Agamotto in which the man had to pry his fingers away). Luckily, the cloak took advantage of the situation and surrendered itself to the boy’s attention, wrapping around the little one gently in a blanket of protection.

 

The child practically melted into its embrace, and it left the sorcerer new concentration to plan a way out of the ruins. He allowed the cloak to take complete hold of the boy as he retrieved his sling ring from his belt and slid it through his fingers.

 

He steadied his foot stance and glided his hand in a precise circular motion, the other remaining in the air as orange sparks started to alight. The flurries of magic chased each other into a spinning gateway, melding into the cozy abode of his cottage’s interior.

 

Once the portal was created, the cloak practically spat the small child back into his free arms, and, miraculously the cloak’s comfort was enough to lull the boy to sleep. The man grunted in annoyance as it did so, reminded with the burden of–hopefully temporarily–having to take care of a living being until he had a further idea of exactly what to do. He hardly knew how to start. Maybe he’d confront his fellow sorcerers the next morning, if he was lucky. Perhaps he’d travel to Ironsaven to deal with his little… problem. A villager mother would be more than happy to find and accept an abandoned orphaned child on her doorstep, a problem that the sorcerer no longer had to deal with.

 

Preparing to pass through, he took one more glance to the bundle in his arms, so small and content and now at peace, but still shivering from the wind setting in. The feeling from the first contact with the boy returned for a spell, forced to contradict the sorcerer’s previous intentions. With a sigh, he pushed the plans formulating in his mind away for the moment. For now, he had to focus on keeping him warm.

 

Stepping through the portal, the spinning array of sparks that was once a gateway spiraled into the wind within seconds, swallowing up the magic-keeper and leaving not a trace in the now desolate and lifeless ruins as the storm above thrived on.


	2. Ten Years Later

**S** tephen couldn’t tell if he felt more disheartened or more annoyed to crack open Peter’s door to find his bed not only an absolute mess but also completely empty.

 

He would have been confused if he didn’t know Peter well enough.

 

The tray he was willing to levitate above his hand hung a little lower, lopsided in the air, and a slice of warm hazelnut bread slipped halfway off the plate, threatening to send a puddle of syrup overboard onto the floor. With a tired sigh, he straightened himself up and headed right back out the door. He took bigger strides to the other side of the small cottage, stopping at the front door to peer out the window, eyes squinting through the rays of the morning sun.

 

Just as he thought, there the boy was again, dressed in the same sea green apprentice training robes, sitting on that same stump with that same book open rubbing his chin with that same quill, on this morning of all days.

 

Stephen had to admit, the boy was a committed learner, but not even _he_ was this committed.

 

He opened the door wide enough for him to step out and close it quietly behind him, then, with a wave or two of his hand, the hovering tray glided through the air until it reached the pre-occupied apprentice and landed with a small clatter atop the book on his lap. Stephen could see the teen’s head jerk up at this new surprise, and not long after, he saw his gaze, too, showing a bright smirk.

 

Stephen wasted no time striding over to the boy’s rightful stump, sitting beside him in a cross-legged position.

 

“It was going to be breakfast in bed, but thanks to you not being present in said bed-“

 

“It’s delicious all the same.” Peter interrupted, voice already muffled through a mouthful of bread. Strange studied the teen beside him, before giving a sigh and adjusting his posture.

 

“I’m surprised you’re here of all places.” The sorcerer mentioned, eyeing the book that resided beneath the breakfast tray.

 

“I come here to study every weekday morning.”

 

“Aren’t you aware that-“

 

“Yes, I’m aware it’s my birthday, but are _you_ aware that it’s a Wednesday?”

 

Strange drew in a breath at this, pearly eyes showing through knitted brows.

 

“Peter,” he pressed, “don’t you think we should put your studies aside for the day?”

 

Peter frowned, placing a strawberry neatly back onto the plate before taking the tray in his hands and lifting it off the book in order to see the text, setting it aside. “But I thought we could learn something special today, something more than just The Vapors of Valtorr or The Winds of Watoomb,” he addressed, flipping through the pages in order to pronounce the names correctly. His hazel eyes brightened suddenly, “maybe you could finally teach me how to go to the Mirror Dimension. It is my _birthday_ after all.”

 

Stephen remained neutral as the apprentice mused this idea to him with fluttering lashes for about the hundredth time. “That spell is intermediate.”

 

“I am an intermediate!”

 

“You’re not intermediate _enough_.” He proceeded to stand, pinching the bridge of his nose and stifling a sigh. “Listen, why don’t you take today to relax, we could even visit Wong or Christine. Or I could invite that boy Harley you seem to enjoy and go to the edge of the forest if you’d like.”

 

“Can we go to the village?” Peter asked as casual as ever.

 

Stephen seemed taken aback, but not surprised, as usual. “No.”

 

“What about the castle grounds?“

 

“Absolutely not.” Strange’s voice suddenly cracked, looking at Peter as if he’d gone and sprouted an extra head. “You know full well that you are not allowed to step foot anywhere near that castle. Not the grounds, not the village, don’t even look in that kingdom’s direction. Do you understand?”

 

Peter closed the book in his lap and dropped it on the ground at his feet, shifting his attention up to his teacher, gaze both troubled and determined. He himself stood.

 

“You promised you’d tell me soon, y’know,” he started quietly, crossing his arms and tensing his shoulders, something he tended to do, “the whole story from top to bottom of why you and every other woodlander I know are so worked up about the very idea of Ironsaven. I’ve always known they’re the enemy, I just want to understand why.”

 

Stephen seemed conflicted. His gaze shifted to the late-summer grass below, confronted with the question. The apprentice thought he’d have to wait an eon before the sorcerer finally turned his way, his expression returned to neutral.

 

“Alright then, if you wish, finish up your breakfast and follow me.”

 

Peter about burst on the spot. He never thought it’d be so easy to get that out of him. He supposed he deserved to know, he was thirteen after all, why should secrets be kept from him?

 

“Thank you, Master Strange!” He heaved, scooping up the tray from the ground and shoving several strawberry slices in his mouth. He picked up the book and followed his teacher inside, leaving one hand to sip from the tea that was included in his breakfast. “Where are we going? Can we bring Levi?”

 

“I don’t see why not,” Strange supposed, “and must you give the Cloak of Levitation a pet name?”

 

“Yes.” Peter confirmed, setting the dishes aside to be cleaned, the cloak in question fluttering over from the fireplace chair curiously at its mention.

 

Peter prepared to sit down wherever Stephen was comfortable telling the tale, but spotted the man conjuring a portal to the forest in the middle of the room, the cloak quick to fasten itself onto his shoulders.

 

“Oh, a field trip?” Peter chirped, “here I expected you’d want to tell me the story at the dinner table with a cup of tea.”

 

“After you, Peter,” Strange declared, eyes on his apprentice, awaiting for him to step through. Peter shut his lips tight, grinning sheepishly before carefully passing through to the lush forest on the other side.

 

The sun peered low in the morning sky, streaking through the trees in its beam’s path and slowly waking the sleepy forest around him. Strange had taken them to a place he was faintly familiar with; a glade near the heart of Sanctum Forest, a massive, stunning clearing with the tallest redwood trees that were always full of life no matter how long they’ve stood, most of them holding the lifespan of a millenia. Peter was told that long before, the greatest Masters of the Mystic Arts have visited this place for wisdom and inspiration, hope and good judgement. As years passed and especially after the events of the war, the place was no more than a quiet spot to meditate.

 

It was never given a name, really, so Peter had called it “The Tall Tree Place” when he was about six.

 

“You’re right. This is a better place for a tale!” He strode to the center of the clearing and took a seat. Strange shook his head, closing the portal behind him and facing the teen on the ground.

 

“Not quite yet, Peter,” the sorcerer chimed in, joining the boy on the forest floor a few feet in front of him. Peter stared up at him, puzzled, awaiting his point. “First, we are going to learn a spell today, one I think you might like.”

 

At this, the apprentice blinked, his chest sinking slightly. “But I thought–“

 

“What, isn’t that what you wanted to do this morning? Learn something new? Something special?” Peter sat up straight again, his head starting to nod rapidly.

 

“Yes, yes of course!” he insisted, beginning to stand, “just wasn’t expecting you’d want to teach me today.”

 

“No need to stand for this one, Peter,” the master informed, holding a beckoning hand out to invite him back onto the ground. Peter obeyed, slumping down onto the grass in a cross-legged position.

 

“Tell me, what do you remember about Hoggoth the Hoary in your studies?”

 

Peter hummed and took a moment to look back. It wasn’t often he’d ask about the members of Vishanti, or any ancient beings for that matter.

 

“He’s known as possibly the oldest magical being in existence, looks like a big scary tiger and has a huge ancient spirit following.” He stated, giving a light shrug.

 

Stephen nodded thoughtfully. “That’s right. He was surrounded by those who admired him as their host, and still are, even after they’ve passed. In fact, he is so connected with them, that with their loyalty, he can call upon their spirits, and use their magnificent power as one. But, though he is their host, it’s not just him who can call upon these spirits. The spell you’ll learn today is called The Hoary Hosts of Hoggoth.”

 

Peter squirmed a bit in his sitting position, clearly exhilarated at the very description of the spell. His mentor continued.

 

“This spell involves reaching out your mind and soul to the power beyond this world. When options were scarce, I’d summon these spirits, and they would often advance on their own. This power is prone to draining your magical energy, is very limited, and are better respondents to those that are pure of heart and have good intentions, that part I believe you don’t have to worry about.” The sorcerer winked, which caused the boy’s face to erupt into a wide smile.

 

“These spirits can come in many ways, depending on the enemy or how dire the situation is. They’ve come to me in roaring typhoons, swarms of hornets, packs of wolves. Sometimes, I call them by accident.”

 

Peter let out a gasp. “You mean, when the cottage got infested with all those glowy blue butterflies?–“

 

“Indeed, that was them.”

 

“Wow,” Peter breathed, eyes wide with the same childlike wonder he showed when he’d learn every new spell in the book. “So I can do that too? Summon little butterfly friends?”

 

“Yes, indeed you can, if you _focus_.” Strange held out the last word, hinting to Peter to begin. The apprentice straightened up and shut his eyes, closing his senses to the outside world and focusing on the darkness before him, feeling his heart beating steadily.

 

“Now, you have done this before, it’s similar to meditation, but instead of focusing on clearing your mind, anchor your mind and body to this earth and let your spirit reach out to the infinite sources beyond. The hosts of Hoggoth aren’t hard to search for if you truly wish to find them. Now breath in…”

 

They sat in the clearing for quite a while, breathing in and breathing out, but neither of them could pinpoint exactly how long. All the while, Stephen was whispering encouraging and remindful words every so often while Peter patiently strived to find the old spirits through the depths of the universe, simply asking any chance he could if he could be heard.

 

The apprentice began to realize how similar this was to another spell he was mastering, The Demons of Denak, but this one had a different feel, a different meaning. The demons he had tried bringing down to earth with him in past training sessions had a need to destroy, arriving with the urgency to shred anything the human had provided, whether it be a block of wood, a dangerous relic, another human, they were desperate, but Peter felt a sense of peace reaching out to these spirits of old as if they held the most precious of wisdom rather than fiery rage.

 

Peter sat as still as possible and breathed as steadily as he managed, stretching his soul beyond his body as his irises danced under his eyelids, and still he remained patient, going as far as he can as long as he can, again and again and again until he heard the voice of his mentor, faint under his senses.

 

“Peter. Open your eyes.”

 

Deep down, Peter had a feeling he knew what that had meant; the hosts failed to join them on earth, he’d failed to bring them there, and he was going to open his eyes to see nothing but two sorcerers sitting in an empty clearing. He opened them slowly, squinting at first from how long he’d had them closed. He blinked them open the rest of the way, senses from the glade flooding his nostrils, his vision and his ears as he felt the breeze rush through them on his full return to earth. Once he gathered himself, he focused on his mentor’s face, expecting disappointment, but only saw the distinct expression of pleasure, even pride.

 

That was when Peter’s peripheral vision opened up to view the scenery around the two sorcerers.

 

The teen almost choked from wildly attempting to gasp and suck in a breath at the same time. The ground all around them as far as the redwoods outlining the glade was no longer clear, but glowing with stunning variations of blue, green and pink light. Looking lower to the luminescent forest floor, Peter saw flowers of all kinds, lilies, orchids, primroses, even peonies, all glimmering and pulsing like lanterns, not enough to be a blaze but enough to shine with life and purity.

 

Peter reached a hand out to the closest one, touching his fingertips to the delicate petals and feeling its soft material on his skin, confirming that they were indeed solid, and had materialized right out of thin air.

 

“Please tell me you’re seeing this too. This has got to be them, right? Did I really bring them here?”

 

Stephen was scanning the new scenery of the glade, the same satisfied expression remaining on his features. “Like I said, they can come as storms, diseases, beasts and beings of all kinds, but for the sake of our training, they decided to come to you in this form.”

 

Eyes peering around the spangled ground, Peter decided that that was the most perfect way they could possibly come.

 

“So, would you now like to hear fateful tale of Ironsaven and the woodlanders?” Strange finally offered, his features darkening the slightest bit. Peter could tell that, despite the beautiful scene around them, the experience was starting to become more serious. Peter nodded briefly, signaling to the sorcerer that he was ready. There was a small moment of silence before he began.

 

~

 

_Once Upon a Time, in the very land we reside in now, there were no barriers, no differences between the people of the forest and the people of the kingdom, no grudgeful blockade between those who were human and those with magical purposes. The people could live anywhere they wanted and shared the land and all that came with it as one, and they were all looked over by one terrible man._

_Once King Howard Stark took the crown, he appointed an advisor, the Sorcerer Supreme. She had been a mentor and leader to all who were learning and mastering the Mystic Arts, including me. She had all the secrets and potential of the universe in her, and that was the very reason Stark had chosen her._

 

_He appointed her to be his close companion in attempt to somehow obtain her power and use it for his own selfish gain. Years passed and he obtained nothing. She was too wise to trick and too powerful to manipulate._

_King Howard had soon had enough. He desired to be the most powerful man in the kingdom, far more powerful than those who held magic in their veins. In response to this selfish goal of his, he exiled all who held more abilities than him; elves, centaurs, pixies, all creatures who once lived in harmony with the humans, but the biggest grudge was held against the Masters of the Mystic Arts, for they knew the secrets of the universe while King Howard did not._

_The king saw to it that an invisible barrier was set around the kingdom so that no magical gateway of any kind could reach through to Ironsaven._

 

_When driven out, most woodlanders had adapted easily, but the sorcerers found it impossible to start a new life in the forest. Not long after their banishment, war broke out._

 

_One would think the sorcerers had the advantage in battle thanks to their magnificent ability, but they were outnumbered from the start, and their weapons of great destruction were a challenge to surpass. To top it all off, they had found a new tactic; to brutally capture wild beasts from the forest and use them against the woodlanders. They’d killed and captured dragons, griffins, manticores, many dangerous yet very beautiful creatures in order to have the upper hand._

_With the technology and reinforcements Stark had, they destroyed everything the woodlanders held dear, including the sanctuary in which they hid their elders and children, killing hundreds of their kind and not long after, the Sorcerer Supreme died at the hands of Howard Stark. That was when we had surrendered the war._

 

~

 

“It had been decades since any interactions with Ironsaven, and though at times our borders are crossed by both sides for resources, we’re like a myth to each other, and I’ve come to a conclusion that this is how it should be, that our paths should not ever cross for the better. Did all of that make sense?”

 

Peter nodded quietly, his eyelids growing a bit heavy. Well, now he knew, and it all made sense.

 

“Good. Now you understand why you may never enter their grounds, even the quiet village could hold the most vengeful of heathens.”

 

Peter shifted his gaze down to the hosts, who had peacefully remained to listen in to the story, petals blushing a little brighter as the light from the sun dimmed into the evening. Somehow, Peter began to wish it hadn’t ended up this way. He’d often look out to the alluring castle from the edge of the forest ever since he was little, wishing he could peek inside, to meet the people who had lived in the tiny houses outside the castle grounds. To learn this terrible truth that that very kingdom had brought death upon his people, it was saddening to say the least.

 

Stephen noticed Peter’s silence, watching him prod the flowers with his chestnut hair draped over his eyes, suddenly missing the breath of fresh air that was his childlike wonder and joy he had only moments ago. The master, disheartened from the sudden change of color in his apprentices face, moved a few inches closer to him.

 

“Peter, come here,” he asked gently. Peter lifted his gaze, his hazel eyes not quite as bright as they had been sitting on the stump eating strawberries that morning. Strange was holding out his arm to him, compassion in his gesture in inviting his apprentice forward. Peter obliged almost instantly, shuffling over carefully to make sure he wasn’t accidentally damaging any of the life-bearing flowers below him.

 

Peter’s awkward height was a challenge as he accepted his mentor’s embrace, but something about the hug brought him back to when he was young. Emotion from the memory suddenly flooded him, and he was sure Strange felt it too, because the sorcerer had held him tighter. If Stephen had done this on any other day, Peter would get fussy and remind him that he was too old for this sort of thing, and it could have easily been said the other way around, but at this moment, he felt safe in the welcoming embrace of his only parental figure, the only person in the entire world who actually cared about him.

 

“You must know it’s my sworn duty to protect you, ever since the day I laid my eyes on you. Past that barrier is a hell I fear I’d never be able to bring you back from, and I don’t know what I’d do with myself if I lost you.”

 

Peter knew this. Even through the scolding, the stubbornness, the arguments, he’d always known this.

 

“I want you to promise me to never go past those boundaries as long as I’m alive, and that if you were to face any danger, to remember everything I’ve taught you, do you understand? You mean the world to me.”

 

Though the sorcerer’s voice stayed calm and stern, Peter could feel the man’s hands shaking again. He nodded quietly, watching the Cloak of Levitation ripple delicately in the evening breeze.

 

“Okay, I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, so I’m not very informed with the comics at all, so I did all the research I could for this particular spell and I found very limited information so a lot of it I had to improvise so forgive me if I got anything wrong! 
> 
> Also this is the quickest release between chapters in the history of my writing so ayy


	3. Moonlight Lost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! Enjoy this one, it’s action-packed as heck.

* * *

**W** eeks gradually passed and an icy grip took hold of the Sanctum Forest’s breeze and branches. Leaves from fluorescent red to dull brown littered the ground at Peter’s boots as he worked, careful as ever as he struck the axe down onto the chopping block, watching the piece of firewood, now parted into two, fall clumsily to the ground: the last one for the night.

He collected his bundle and stood upright, wiping his dampened forehead with the sleeve of his robes as he glanced skyward, just in time to spot a family of dragons soar steadily south in a v-formation, Regal Copper ones, as he observed.

He found it a bit off-putting that some were already migrating. It couldn’t be getting _that_ cold this early in the season.

He carried the wood inside and took the time to heave a few chunks into the fireplace, preparing a new flame as the chill night approached. He’d thought Master Strange would be back by the time he was done, and the longer he waited warming his hands by the fire, he started to become uneasy: the sun had long sunk below the treetops. He knew his mentor was on more than just an errand at this point. When the man had left, he didn’t tell Peter where or how long he was going to be gone for, and that occurrence usually meant he was facing other-worldly matters, those of foreign dimensions that were far too dangerous for Peter himself to be involved with.

He knew that one day, eventually, when he would have to take his master’s place, he’d have to face such peril as well in order to keep the world protected from transcendental dangers, just as every Master of the Mystic Arts before and after him.

There was a sudden stirring from the room that belonged to the sorcerer, turning Peter’s attention to it immediately, leaving the warmth of the flame to greet the portal steadily forming in the room’s doorway. The yellow sparks sputtered to life, not looking quite as strong as when Strange had conjured the gateway earlier that day.

As fast is it had opened, the tall figure of his mentor stumbled onto the other side, the portal dissipating at once behind him, as if the most of his power had burnt out and there was only enough left to bring the portal to life for a short moment. Peter was quick to his side, but as fast as Strange had the chance to look remotely vulnerable, he straightened himself up again, despite the very visible slash in his forehead.

He cleared his throat. “No need, Peter, it’s not as troubling as it looks.” Peter lowered his guard, though concern still lingered in his chest at the off-chance that his mentor had been lying.

“Alright. Are you sure?” The apprentice winced at the mage’s unstable stature.

The sorcerer waved a hand dismissively. “Of course I am.” It was clear he was straining his voice so that it didn’t appear weak as he wheezed in and out, breath painfully heavy. “Please, I’m fine. Have you had dinner yet? Perhaps it’s far too late for a meal. Prepare some tea then, would you?”

Peter gave an uncertain nod and did as he was told, heading to the kitchen, but glancing back to the battered sorcerer every so often. He knew better than to doubt his mentor, but even the cloak looked sagged and lopsided on Stephen’s shoulders.

The teen prepared two cups rather distractedly, working with nervous hands as if taking his attention away from the other soul in the room, the half-limp mentor straggling on a fragile stance hardly a few feet away, meant something terribly drastic would become of him, right out of the boundaries of his peripheral watch. The image he’d took in of Stephen after the portal had closed just moments ago bled heavily into his mind. His salt-and-pepper hair sticking out in odd places, his face caked in sweat, his left eye swollen and bulged a painful black, his already tattered hands blistered and red, most likely from one troubling spell after another surging out of his weakening veins. Peter almost crumbled the herbs in his hand as he unsteadily transferred the portions into the pot.

Through this process, Peter did not take one look back. He had to trust that Strange would handle himself. He had an ego the size of a redwood, but he wouldn’t lie.

Peter was carrying the pot to set it atop the fire when an unpleasant crash reached his ears.

The boy jumped so violently in response that the heavy pot fell out of his grip, erupting an even louder noise than the one he’d heard across the room. Peter squoze his eyes shut at the shattering sound, and a haunting _whoosh_ fell over the fireplace. The welcoming heat from the fire dispelled at once and a chilling cold crept into Peter’s skin that he forced his eyes open to see what had become of the fire.

Darkness welcomed him immediately, and he realized that the liquid continents of the bowl he’d allowed out of his grip had killed the flame in an instant. Any remnants of light in the room came from the silk-like silver beams of the moon streaming from the window, it was enough to make out the cloudy silhouettes of the furniture and the now damp firewood sitting in a lifeless pile before him.

Peter swayed, taking a second to gather himself in the chaos. He turned hastily around to distinguish where the first crash had come from, remembering that it had been dangerously close to a body hitting the floor.

“Master Strange?” The first thing his instincts went for beside calling out his mentor’s name was an illumination spell, which he cast at an impressive speed. Like a candle being lit, the middle of the kitchen bore color again, which opened up to the inevitable sight of the bundle that was the body of Stephen Strange, barely holding on to the closest thing his withered hands could grab a hold of; the sheet of cloth occupying the kitchen table.

Right. He’d definitely been lying.

“Master Strange!”

Peter didn’t back down when he rushed to the man’s side this time, determined to resist any pleas to stand down that were to come from the mage. It was when they didn’t come that made Peter’s heart thump a little harder in his chest. The only sound that could possibly derive from Strange’s throat as he laid on the floor were soft and broken, painful groans, his eyelids only having the strength to open halfway and rolling violently at the back of his head.

“O-oh my gosh, Stephen,” the boy bleated. As fast as his hands could muster, Peter rolled the limp sorcerer until he laid sprawled, front-up onto the floor.

Peter wiped a blot of moisture from his face, whether it was a tear or a bead of sweat, he wasn’t sure, as he stared his mentor in the face once more, distress lessening as he caught a glimpse of Strange’s now open eyes, barely slits, but still open.

“Peter–“

It was nearly a whisper, but Peter started to nod uncontrollably.

“Yes? Talk to me. You’re okay, right? Please tell me you’re okay.”

“Water–“

The apprentice blanked. Water. Water, _of_ _course_ he needed water!

“Okay. I’ll get you some water. I’ll get water and I’ll get Wong, too, I’ll tell him what happened, just please hang on–“

He practically leapt from the floor, the light from his palm wavering but still strong, and crossed the blackened kitchen, the sound of a rippling curtain greeting him in the silence. He whipped around.

“Levi, you’re okay!” The cloak was once again hovering, rippling obscurely from its own form of weariness, but conscious all the same. It danced worriedly in the darkness, clearly in distress from the new and very unpleasant sight of its owner, energy-drained and lying limply on the floor.

“Watch him, please, make sure he’s breathing well.” Though sweet relief met him at the awakening of his sentient friend, Peter’s head still reeled from the fear of the fate of his mentor. His eyes were peeled for any trace of fresh water, but doubt pressed him as he discovered that the last of the water was used for the tea he had been preparing just moments ago, and was now dispelled–and probably evaporating by now–in the cold and empty fireplace.

“Um… I’ve got to retrieve more from the well. I’ll be right back, hang tight–”

“Peter–“ Strange’s voice was almost too quiet to register.

“I’m sorry, sir, I dropped the cauldron in the fire. By accident. It’s my fault. You won’t even know I’m gone.” The wind howled outside.

“P-... Peter… ”

Peter’s foot was already out the door, the heavy cauldron balanced on his hip.

“I’m sorry.”

The sorcerer’s rasping coughs we’re muffled as Peter pulled the door shut, and with that, he started sprinting.

 

Peter’s mind was a cluttered haze and the blood pounding in his ears hadn’t ceased since he found his mentor curled up on the kitchen floor. The voice in his head screamed to conjure a portal to the water source, to return to his master quicker, but he couldn’t seem to get his legs to stop, and all his eyes could focus on was the familiar path through the forest that he knew so well.

He was in panic, far too fixated, his entire body heaving, sprinting. Right now, there was one thing, only one thing in the whole world, and that was the well awaiting him, hidden away in the folds of the forest. There was no time for anything else, like how high the moon was inching through the sky or the small obstacles at his feet or the violent rustle of a shrub at his hip.

He couldn’t stop, not even when the sounds followed him like a siren treading the water after a vulnerable sailor.

Like the lighting of a match, his focus snapped, no longer on the path to the desired well he was so close to, but on the realization that the rustling in the bushes and the undergrowth were nearing him, footsteps away, and a new purpose to run for his life gripped at his insides. He began to hyperventilate, hearing it come closer, and closer.

Being out here so knowingly at night was soon going to be the biggest mistake of his short life.

To be quiet was impossible. The threat was already aware of his presence. It pounded. Closer, closer. Running any faster did nothing, the creature exceeding his speed, galloping on hooves, paws, talons, claws, whatever the creature was about to use to tackle him down and rip him open with.

A shadow tore through the path, sealing the clear gateway for Peter to achieve another full sprint, and to his demise, scrambled to a stop in the middle of the clearing.

It took Peter all of the power in his bones to stop after running so fast for so long. A grunt surged out of his throat as he faced the beast, having abandoned the cauldron about a yard or so away so he can position his hands in a defensive stance. Power spiraled through his core and through the veins of his fingertips, his jaws clenched tightly as the skin from his palms to his wrists declined dramatically to a freezing temperature. His eyes trained on the unidentifiable creature.

_By the Icy Tendrils of Ikonn._

The beast charged, barely giving Peter a second more before the the impact. The wind flew out of him so fast it caught him off guard, and the icy spell faded from his fingers as soon as he felt his back crash against the frost-peppered dirt.

There was a sharp pressure on his chest, so heavy it felt as if an oak came crashing down on him and he lived just long enough to experience the compression. Yet, it wasn’t heavy enough to give him the same fate.

Though it was black as death outside, Peter shut his eyes as tight as he could, gasping as he felt a husky breath creep down onto his sweat-beaded face, hot and animal-like.

He remained still, until the cruel grunting above him merged into a triumphant giggle.

“Haha. That was fun. We should race more often! So I could beat you again.”

A painful groan escaped Peter’s lips, releasing into the cold air and then dissolving.

“Harley, your hooves are digging into my ribs…”

He heard the body above him suppress a snort. “Sorry.”

The weight relieved from Peter’s chest almost instantly, as well as the intense terror he’d experienced just moments ago.

He couldn’t tell if he was more reassured, or more angry by this discovery.

He sat upright with another groan and huffed irritably up at his cervitaur friend, who extended a hand to aide him to his feet.

“You scared the daylights out of me you nitwit, I could have froze you to death, y’know,” Peter scolded, brushing the dust from his robes as he cast yet another illuminating spell to reveal his friend’s face from the darkness of the night.

Harley wrinkled his muzzle-like nose in response to the sudden blaze of light, his striking blue eyes blinking rapidly.

Though those of Harley’s species were known for frolicking about the forest in close to practically nothing, Peter was relieved to see his friend was bundled in a brown coat with a fur trim, his human half clearly vulnerable to the cold that was coming around this time of year. And the antlers that were poking out of his curly head of hair had grown a small few millimeters from the last time Peter had seen him. Not a big difference, but noticeable due to the fact that Peter can never seem to take his eyes off of them.

He and Harley were close, but species of any kind that were different from his own fascinated him more than anything–almost more than magic.

“Magic is weird. And creepy. If it’s so dangerous, why do it?” The half-deer pressed.

“You wouldn’t understand. Seriously, your herd would have trampled Master Strange and then me if I went through with that spell,” Peter responded, his eyes searching the forest floor for the discarded cauldron. “Listen, Harley, I really don’t have time for this right now. Strange is in bad shape and I need to collect water from the well to take back to him before things get worse. Do you know Wong? The one who lives by the borders?”

Harley shook his head, his large, brown ears bouncing about clumsily.

“How about Christine?”

The ears bounced again.

“Then, just go find someone, anyone. Your herd–no, not your herd–just find another sorcerer, tell them that Stephen Strange is hurt. Take them to my cottage.”

Out of the depths of the wood, a howl phased from a distance, and Peter could see Harley’s eyes widen at the billowing sound.

“Peter–“ he gasped.

“Just some wolves, probably.”

“Hellhounds maybe?”

“Just quiet and listen. You know the difference between a good sorcerer and a bad sorcerer, right?”

Harley nodded this time. “Yeah. The real creepy ones. Even creepier than Master Strange.”

“Master Strange is not creepy, you idiot.”

The howling drew up again, bursting sharply from the same breadth far off, prompting the fawn to grab nervously onto his pointed ears.

“Peter, I think I should go home soon.” His voice became a small whine, all four of his skinny hooves digging at the earth.

“Not until you help me with this first. This is serious.” The mage apprentice pleaded, bending down to heave the cauldron back into his arms. “Here, I’ll go get the water, you go find a sorcerer. A good one. Go to my cottage.”

Harley barely appeared to be listening as his eyes shifted wildly between the shadows, stretched in panic as the dreadful dog-like wails refused to cease, building and spreading and shaking the oaks.

”I shouldn’t have left home so late at night,” came Harley’s petrified voice.

“They’re not even that close to us. Harley, Master Strange is–“

“None of my business! I’m gonna get eaten by a Hellhound because of you! As if almost getting froze to death wasn’t bad enough.” The fawn began to scamper backwards back into the conservatory shrubs of the forest, the spotted back of his animal half arching tensely and disappearing behind leaves and twigs. “I’m sorry, Peter. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

“Harley, wait!” The half-boy allowed himself to become swallowed by the undergrowth, fleeing the clearing in an instant and leaving nothing behind but hoofprints in the frost. Peter sunk, staring blankly at where his friend once stood and listened in to the soft _thrum thrum thrum_ of Harley galloping steadily back into the thick, desolate and mysterious forest.

Peter kicked a young shrub growing at his feet. “Wuss.”

The apprentice, though disheartened, was quick to get back on track. He began running again, but felt as if the intensity of his journey had lessened since he’d left the cottage.

He was focused on the task at hand, and the desperate, hungry howls mellowed until they temporarily died among the trees.

 

Peter about threw himself onto the cobblestone structure of the vine-covered forest well, placing the burdening cauldron beside him and grasping for the bucket hanging from the roping mechanism that held the water source together and executed its purpose. He began to lower it down quickly into the bottomless mouth of the well, careful not to let his grasp slip and lose it to the black depths.

His cold fingers began to tremble as they maneuvered the frost-stiff rope down into the unsettling waters, feeling the weight shift as the bucket at the bottom began to submerge under the still current, consuming the well’s offering. The deed was nearly done. He would soon be back to the waiting comfort of his cottage, back with Stephen, starting a new fire, resting his pounding feet.

At the first pull of his muscles, he jolted in response to a ominous, terrible noise, the same he had heard only moments ago when he watched Harley leave, only closer. Much, much closer. A quiet gasp shook him, and he had to let go of the rope with one hand to cover his mouth, surprised by the cold skin that met his lips. His eyes began to dart around the forest consuming him, his heart starting to pang miserably due to how much it had already been put through from that night, almost afraid to find whatever he was attempting to detect among the undergrowth.

The air in his lungs coiled in and out of his chest violently, filling the air before him with lingering white puffs as the howling continued. He began to work faster, tensing all the muscles he had in his arms to lift the heavy bucket at the bottom of the well, inch by inch, hauling his hands up and down the rope’s unending length and clenching his shivering jaw.

He stared down at the shivering darkness, watching the wooden bucket slowly appear into the moonlight toward the mouth of the well, the water inside wavering gently. The moment it was in view, Peter shot a hand out, and after a few unsuccessful grabs, magic finally flowed to his fingers and the bucket began to levitate in a golden aura, shattering the shadowy well in a burst of light. He freed the bucket out of the unwelcoming darkness of the cobblestone wall, careful not to loose any of its continents as he lifted it close to the cauldron’s rim, tilting in over to make the exchange.

As the water poured, his eyes began to dart again, aware that his heart had not stopped its continuous pounding, throbbing hard in his ribs as the howls rattled his ears. They were so close, so thirsty for blood that Peter’s hands shook as he attempted to maintain the magical energy that was coursing through his bones as he hastily emptied the water into the cauldron, eyes weary and cloudy from remaining peeled open for the last passing hour.

Once every drop from the bucket was gone, Peter practically hurled it away from him, releasing his magical grip at is thrust through the midnight air and landed with a thump several feet away. In that moment, Peter concentrated his eyes on the cauldron, contorting his hands and summoning all the power he could derive from his veins to his fingertips, causing the entire bowl, water and all, to disappear before his eyes with a golden flash of light.

If Peter had completed the spell right, the cauldron would be sitting still and undisturbed on the kitchen floor by now, awaiting Stephen’s attention. Now it was his turn. The apprentice stood, becoming dizzy from the sudden action and regained his stance before reaching for the slingring occupying a clasp on his belt. He padded them down, desperate to meet the metal texture, but the ring was nowhere to be found on his belt. His heart rate spiked and he felt as if he were about to pass out on the forest floor as his shaking hands gripped every surface of his belt.

His legs urged him to take off, and so he did, once again.

The scorching cold wind numbed his face as he tore across the forest. His slingring; he had it with him when he left the cottage. It couldn’t have gone anywhere unless it slipped off of him during the perilous errand.

It must have fallen off when Harley decided to go and foolishly pin him to the ground.

_Stupid fawn. Idiot!_

The bones in his legs were beginning to become sore, but he kept on, his boots pounding against the ground in desperate strides. The howls hadn’t ceased, and though there was no proof to behold that the animals had been hunting him, Peter felt as if the howls were for him and his very flesh. The creatures were nearing. He never wanted that ring on his fingers so badly.

Suddenly, with straining, tired eyes, Peter saw a light in the distance. Then another, and then another. Considering the boy couldn’t make out the source, he couldn’t tell if he should be more or less in fear of whatever light-bearing being had joined him in the treacherous night.

Whatever it was (pixies would be very inconvenient to encounter, a friendly soul holding a torch would be a miracle), he couldn’t stop running. How could he, when he was so, so close to home?

As he got closer, he began to make out silhouettes, large and towering shadows, lingering about and blocking his path. Peter ran until there was no where he could run to, until he was facing the tall shapes and became trapped in their almost welcoming light. He stopped abruptly, finding himself staring up at the body of massive, pearl-white horse.

Peter stared at its face in the light hanging by its thrashing head, curious to discover that it bore no horn and sprouted no wings. He’d come to find out that he was staring at, in fact, a normal, ordinary white horse.

“My boy, what are you doing so far from the village?”

If his throat wasn’t so dry, Peter would have screamed in surprise at the sudden voice that had questioned him out of the darkness of nowhere, but only stared dumbfoundedly at the new, very human face that was now appearing in the light.

It was a built, dark-skinned man garbed from shoulder to toe in silver-clad armor, perched atop the saddle of the white horse with an expression that only spelled concern with a clue of suspicion. He glared Peter in the eyes, and all Peter thought to do was stare back, frozen in fear and so much confusion.

He hadn’t been the only lantern-bearer there. Three others on their own horses not far off, (too busy communing with each other to notice the boy) and one alongside him; a woman with a head of crimson hair and a look that only inquired the frightened apprentice, her horse a spotted grey. They looked down upon him intimidatingly, questioning his presence without the use of words and making his blood run cold. He had an idea of who these people were, and even if there was a opening where he could slip from their aggressive stares and continue on the path, there was no way he could outrun their horses. He searched the very core of his mind of what he could possibly do, but nothing came up. Any spell he would have thought to use to get him out of this troublesome situation would only put him in further danger.

Finally, the two knights broke their stares as a shrill howl tore through the quiet air, hungry and desperate, and exceptionally close. The faces of the two riders darkened, even in the light from the lanterns they were holding, and looked down at Peter with a new expression; full of strict panic.

“Go. Back to the village immediately,” the woman ordered, her voice laced with caution. Peter shuffled, but hardly moved. The man snapped the reins in his hands and the white horse took off, ripping past Peter by mere inches as he continued to remain frozen on the path. The woman glared at him, her eyes raged. “Go!” She, too, snapped the reins, and off her horse went, followed by the three other riders that streaked past Peter that gave the apprentice the privilege of lack of attention.

He watched as they rode off down the opposite direction, and it took him a moment to process that he was no longer condemned on the path. He took off again, and hopefully, nothing else would stop him. The last hour has been nothing but sheer chaos for both his mind and his body, and even with all the magic he knew he possessed, he felt like nothing mattered without that slingring. The trip could have taken him seconds, and he could be home by now with Stephen and Levi. His heart throbbed painfully at the thought of his mentor. _Almost_ _there_.

Then, his foot got caught on a root and he stumbled.

As the forest around him jolted to a deafening stop, his head reeled wildly, and he was sent head-first through the piercing, strangling cold air, falling so fast that not even his hands could save him.

Peter’s head hit sharp stone with a force stronger than anything he had ever felt. A scream coursed through his throat, pain numbed him, and the world around him bled into blackness darker than the night itself.

The last sounds of the night he heard before he was cut off from the world he knew so well and the forest he tried so hard to escape were the desperate whinnying of the knights’ horses as they countered the cruel snarling threats of the dogish beasts they faced.


	4. Welcome to Ironsaven

**W** hen Peter started to fade back into consciousness, he was no longer cold. Warmth met the surface of his skin in a welcoming embrace, almost lulling him back into his lifeless blackout. The sounds that were caressing his ears were muffled and hard to make out, but he started to perceive it as a beautiful melody, chiding any questioning thoughts that were to disturb Peter’s mind. He thrived off of the sound, using it as an anchor to awake into the world again, for there was nothing else that he wanted to open his mind to.

 

The pain eased in almost suddenly. In continuous, coursing waves, a pounding sensation resided in his head, being the focal point of all his feeling. Not even the soreness in his legs could compare to the steady pulsing in his brain. His breath hitched as he noticed something was pressed against his scalp right where the worst of the pain was residing. It was cold, but it felt strangely refreshing on his throbbing skin, so he decided to keep it there.

 

The melody; it was so enchanting, so angelic. If he’d known better, he’d think he was on his passage to the afterlife, greeted with the chorus of his mystic ancestors, but he couldn’t imagine leaving the world would come with such a headache. A painful groan grumbled out of his throat, and the ballad paused for a small moment as if it had acknowledged his presence, and continued in a gentle hum. He urged his eyes to blink open, awaking to barely opaque images of the world around him.

 

He wasn’t met with towering trees or to the faded wooden walls of his cottage, but to dull-grey stone, lit at every wall by a single iron-bound circular chandelier, shattering the room with light without the presence of the sun. He felt oddly comfortable on the bedding he was lying on, and almost wanted to sink back into it and wait until the contention in his head had eased, but he simply had to know where exactly he ended up after his waking.

 

The first thing his gaze had met beside the ceiling were two cloudy grey irises taking him in attentively, and Peter had to sit up from the silk sheets he had been laying on and rub his eyes to see them better.

 

“It’s so good to see you awake. How are you feeling?”

 

“Mmgh… fine.” Peter grumbled, using one hand to scratch his scalp roughly. The woman winced and gently moved his hand away.

 

“I wouldn’t recommend doing that. It was quite a stumble you had. The concussion you suffered put you out through the whole night, about ten hours.”

 

The last of her statement was a blur to him as he studied the woman further, peering curiously at where her straightened, blond-orange hair draped neatly over her distinctly pointed ears.

 

“You’re…” Peter gave a shuttery breath, pointing dumbly at his own, normal shaped ears. “you’re an elf!”

 

The woman gave a small hum. “Oh, yes, so you’ve noticed,” she almost murmured, tucking a lock of hair behind one of them shyly.

 

Peter had to give himself a moment to take that fact in and test it a bit in his mind. He supposed that maybe, there was a chance that the local forest elves had found him blacked out in the middle of the forest, rescued him and took him in to help him recover. If that were true, then he couldn’t be far from home. Elves were the great healers of the forest, and were close allies to the sorcerers, even before the war. If Peter could just ask them, maybe they can escort him, too.

 

The apprentice was itching to spring from the sheets and get right to it, but the woman was paying such close attention to him that she was bound to insist that he lay back down and relax.

 

His stomach also longed for a meal. He wondered what elves ate. He was simply craving to find out.

 

“I was told to ask what your name was. I’m curious myself,” the nurse questioned.

 

“Uh, Peter,” the teen answered, draping his legs over the mattress. They were unbelievably sore.

 

“Well, I’m Lady Potts, but you may call me Pepper if you wish.” She studied a scroll in her lap–one in which Peter had not noticed until then–and tapped a quill on its surface a few times. “Good to know, it must have been difficult asking around the village for the family of a lost, unconscious boy when we knew nothing of your name. Perhaps it will be easier now.”

 

Peter’s eyes–that were so full of hope a moment ago–darkened immensely.

 

“I-I’m sorry… did you just say… ‘village’?”

 

Miss Potts’ brows knitted in concern. “Why, yes, I did. My boy, is something wrong?”

 

Before the apprentice could utter a believable answer, something strangely wet and leathery lapped at his hand, prompting the mistress beside him to utter a ‘down, Butterfingers’. Surprised, Peter shifted his gaze to foot of the bed, where a wrinkly-faced basset hound gazed up at him, its tongue lolling excitedly out of the side of its mouth. It rested its chin on his knee and Peter reached his hand out to stroke its head, but not even the calming, soft texture of the dog’s fur could ease the thoughts that were whirring in his already pulsing head.

 

He turned his gaze cautiously back to the nurse.

 

“Um, pardon my question, madam, but, could you tell me where I am?”

 

The woman’s expression shifted to that of confusion, but she humored the boy, her eyes trained closely on him.

 

“We are… in the Castle of Ironsaven, the healing chambers… to be exact? Peter, is everything alright?”

 

Peter’s mouth twitched opened and closed–appearing similar to that of a goldfish–and stood from his bed, his vision obscuring due to the pressure residing in his temple.

 

“Miss, can I take a break? I think maybe I should… walk around… get some fresh air, I just… I’ll be right back.”

 

Pepper looked at him oddly, blinking in surprise at his sudden request.

 

“But, you just woke up! And in your condition you must remain immobile until your pain has eased!”

 

“Ah, well, you know what? I’m actually feeling a lot better!” Peter was, in fact, not feeling a lot better.

 

At this, Pepper appeared doubtful, but hardly looked like she was about to stop him.

 

“Well, if you say so. But I expect you to return when you’re perfectly refreshed.” Peter nodded as vigorously as his weary head could allow him, pacing across the surprisingly large dungeon-like room that he now noticed had multiple other beds much alike the one he had been laying on, along with shelf after shelf of bottles and tools of all sizes. He didn’t allow himself much more time to study it.

 

“Okay, uh, thanks mistress!” He pinpointed the main door to, whatever in the world it would lead him to, and pushed it open, heaving himself out of the room and stumbling out right into the open. He stopped almost instantly as he realized he was standing dead center in the middle of a gigantic, brightly lit hall. He looked left and right, and it almost appeared as if the hall had gone on forever at both ends. He chose a direction–the right–and started running, then, realizing just how sore his legs and feet were, he resorted to a light jog.

 

As he started down the long hallway he noticed suddenly that he was no longer dressed in his seagreen tunic that he wore when he left the house. Instead, a white blouse covered his torso and arms down to his wrists, hanging loosely on his body along with brown flax trousers. It felt odd being in something so simple, and it made him start to wonder where in the world they put his tunic.

 

The apprentice observed the hall around him as he cascaded across the floor, white marble behind red golden-rimmed carpet meeting his feet. The walls surrounding him were of towering white stone held up by sculpted pillars and high-hanging archways. Above his head was a glass ceiling defined by rows and rows of decorative red transparent silk that rippled beautifully against the morning sun. Along both sides of the hall were doors much alike the one he left out of, though some were a lot larger and more important-looking, he could have sworn he passed one of the rumored ballrooms just judging by the collection of large, oak and iron-embroidered doors as he pressed on.

 

It was all so marvelous and overwhelming to Peter to stroll through the hallways and pass chamber after chamber of the very castle he looked down upon from Sanctum Forest for so long. The walls stretched so tall and broad around him that, in the grand scheme of things, Peter hardly felt like he was going very far in his speed-walk, as if he were an ant venturing through an endless rabbithole.

 

Knowing the Castle of Ironsaven had stood far before he or Stephen were born, the structure suddenly felt so new, so innovative, like nothing Peter had ever witnessed before. He found himself imagining the very hands that placed every brick and carved every door frame and sewn every stitch in the carpet below him to mend together such a castle.

 

Part of him even felt guilty. He was in the very place Stephen forbade him to go and here he was envying the sheets of crimson silk curling and coiling high above his head.

 

The end of the hall finally reached Peter’s vision, and he watched as the pearly walls widened out into a much greater room. He hardly hesitated his entry, picking up the pace and tearing into the new room head-on.

 

To his demise, he was not the only person to be in the room. Soon after his entrance, he came face-to-face with a vaguely familiar figure, his silver armor a lot more shinier in the bright atmosphere. Peter had to halt sooner than he anticipated to prevent barreling into the man.

 

“Ah, there you are!” He declared, his low voice penetrating the silent room in an echo; Peter’s heart seemed to rumble from the vibration of it. “I just got word that you’ve left the healing chambers for… a break or something… and are in need of an escort. Lady Potts presumed that, since you likely don’t know a single thing about being in the castle, you are expected to be in need of one. I am Sir Rhodes, and you are Peter, so it has been known to me?”

 

“Ummm…” Peter droned. Boy, word got around here fast. “Well, gee, thanks for the offer, but I think I’ll be alright on my own, if you would just point me to the exit…?“

 

Rhodes shook his head insistently. “Oh, don’t think I don’t know what you are trying to get at, my boy.”

 

At this, Peter felt a gulp bob in his throat painfully, but he listened as the knight continued.

 

“I know you want to head home immediately, but you mustn’t go all on your own. We all know what became of you the last time that happened. That is why King Anthony wishes to escort you down to the village himself.”

 

Peter couldn’t stop his eyes from widening in awe, wobbling from the dizziness in his head.

 

“The king… wants to…”

 

Peter found the idea of coming in contact with the king, at the very least, absurd. He hardly knew whether to be afraid or starstruck, but one thing was for sure; he wanted nothing to do with him.

 

“Tell him he doesn’t have to go through the trouble, _really_ , I-I-I can find my way!” Peter protested, but the knight continued to shake his head objectively.

 

“No can do.” Rhodes obliged. “He said it himself that it would be a pleasure to do so. Not to mention, you could have died. It’s something he’s been hoping to see to all morning. If you are feeling alright by now, I expect you should be prepared to leave with him the moment he returns from his meeting with the Captain.”

 

Peter searched around the room desperately as if there was something lingering in the air that could, once again, get him out of this predicament. Three thrones stood broadly against one wall of the great room, and they seemed to be the only things there beside the gorgeous red carpet and pillars and openings to several hallways. His eyes darted to the open doors standing opposite to the row of thrones, recognizing it as his final ticket out. Now all he had to do was think, _think_!

 

He pointed sharply to a direction past Rhode’s shoulder.

 

“Gee, that’s a _really_ fat dove.”

 

Peter didn’t even think to check whether the man had bought the fake distraction before breaking for the open doors, using the last of the power in his bones to make it through. Fresh sunlight pooled onto his skin as he met the outside once again, feeling his worries run free along with the pain in his head.

 

He sprinted across the castle grounds, and looked behind him once to see if he had been followed–which he most likely was given his suspicions exit–and lost his breath to the wind at the sight of the castle before him. He turned on his heels to get a better view, slowly backing farther and farther away so he could see if his eyes could catch a glimpse of the very tip of the fortress. He simply couldn’t; he was way too close to it, to think he was _this_ close to the _Castle_ _of_ _Ironsaven_.

 

He ran both of his hands through his hair and was caught by surprise by how revoltingly damp his scalp felt. His heart suffered an aching pain as it pounded aggressively against his ribs, his widened eyes studying the collosal towers and the color-bathed glass stained windows and the wide open balconies. He seemed frozen in awe that overwhelmed him at every angle, making him shudder with uncertainty. His feet inched backward little by little, until his back lightly collided with something.

 

A small clattering sound was made, and Peter was almost afraid to turn around to see what he’d disturbed.

 

He heard sort of a low snicker. “Well, if it isn’t just the man I wanted to see.”

 

Peter’s body began to slowly turn around, his eyes evermoving from their place on the new figure that had greeted him.

 

A stubbly chin grinned down at the teen, shadowed greatly due to the high-rising sun blocked just behind the man’s head. His body shone with heaps of flashy red and gold silk and fine wool-sewn robes, in addition to a beautifully mended bronze chestplate and simple tassets, nothing but a sword at his hip and appearing underprotected compared to the two other knights that had been flanking him; one he had seen back in the woods–red hair, black armor and all–and a shorter, black-haired knight he had yet to meet.

 

Peter couldn’t dare move when the man took one step forward. “I was expecting you’d still be in the medical wing with a bad migraine but, I guess Pepper already worked her magic, hmm? You look fit as a fiddle.”

 

Peter opened his mouth to speak, but realized something as he did. His head had felt a lot better now since he had left the room with the nurse and the dog, along with his legs now, too. Well, that’s elf healing magic for you.

 

“By the way, we’ve been _dying_ to know your name. Didn’t do us much good, you being nameless, y’know.”

 

Peter opened his mouth again when the question had been answered for him in mere seconds by a wheezing voice coming up from behind him.

 

“His na… name is Peter you… r majesty….” Rhodes rasped, gasping for air after his sudden trip across the castle grounds to meet them. Peter whipped his head back around when he heard a hum from the flashy unnamed man, who Peter soon figured out was in fact the king.

 

“Peter… Peeeterrr. I like it, kid. So, you ready to hit the town, then? Cause I sure am ready to get this out of the way.”

 

Peter had no say in the matter as the king turned and began to walk off in the opposite direction of the castle, leaving him no choice but to reluctantly follow behind.

  


The town was, surprisingly, in closer proximity with the castle grounds than Peter first thought. It was only when they crossed over a pearly bridge perched over a gully surrounding the outer rim of the castle that Peter began to see small homes and large markets and inns scattered about, dotting the terrain and filling it with a sense of life.

 

His eyes searched the faces among them, each finding pleasant joy in their daily tasks and agendas. There weren’t as many of them out at this time of day, but as the royal group passed casually through the stone-tiled streets, they began to receive greeting after greeting, some actually being answered back by the few in the escorting group, and for the moment, Peter was quite surprised the king wasn’t treating his very presence to the townsman as a blessing from the gods themselves.

 

Or rather, that’s how the son of Howard tended to act, according to Master Strange. And the mere sight of the heir confirmed that entirely.

 

Throughout the journey, the king lead the way of the three knights and Peter, who wasn’t given much attention by any of them until he began to notice a few leisurely glances offered by the facial-haired majesty, and it was only once they were well within the town’s residence did the man finally speak with a sharp whiff of the morning air.

 

“Wow, I forgot this place has the best pound cake. Madam Romanoff, do you remember if the bakery is around here? I’d love to bring back some goods.”

 

For a moment, not one of them replied, until the red-haired knight reluctantly grumbled a sigh. “Your majesty, our intention to come down to the village wasn’t for you to waste your money on commoner food, we have a kid to escort,” she rebuked, though it hardly sounded at all scolding.

 

In an instant, the shorter knight flung the woman an offended glance, his mouth agape. “Watch your tone! If _your_ _majesty_ requires something from these commoners than see to it that it is done.”

 

“Yeah, Banner’s right, Romanoff, you’re not my mom!” King Anthony shot back, crossing his arms and appearing very close to that of a pouting, irrational child. A small, almost unheard chuckle escaped Banner.

 

“No, but I’m closer to being so. No cake, Tony. We’ve got plenty of qualified royal chefs at home.” Rhodes countered, taking the lead of the group through the street. Anthony appeared to sink for a moment, wrinkled his nose in an annoyed manner toward the silver knight, and proceeded to follow a bit reluctantly.

 

They continued on with this sort of snappy but heartfelt banter throughout the trip, speaking as if utmost respect for their majesty and each other wasn’t the object of their collective relationship. Hierarchy didn't matter to these four, Peter found. They all just appeared to be lifelong friends and companions, without the need of professional royal courosey.

 

Rhodes dragged Peter from his thoughts, turning to finally face the boy’s direction to look him in the eye once again.

 

“Alright, Peter, you’re going to have to tell us which one is yours eventually. So, go ahead, lead the way.”

 

Peter blinked up at the knight’s face, his mind wiped blank in the sudden shift in the moment. He darted his gaze confusedly between the four royal beings before him, each staring back at him expectantly, excluding Romanoff, who looked like she could care less about the entire situation.

 

The mage fought to not let his panic show through. He hadn’t thought of an excuse to present the knights questioning him given the chance that he’d come to this point, and how they would respond given the true answer?

 

 _Not_ _from_ _the_ _village_? _Then_ _where_ _are_ _you_ _really_ _from_?

 

Peter could hardly fathom what they’d do if they found out sorcerers still lived in the forest after the war, that they still lived at all. Gods, what would they do to Stephen? To the other sorcerers? To the woodlanders? He couldn’t stand their eyes anymore. They were all burning into him, waiting, suspecting. He had to _spit_ _something_ _out_.

 

”I-I don’t live here! I’m not from Ironsaven at all!”

 

Peter could barely take in all of their mixed reactions at once. Rhodes seemed like some sort of truth had been awakened to him while the one that was called Banner gave off a rather perplexed expression.

 

Romanoff failed to suppress a heavy sigh, and ran a hand aggravatingly through her crimson locks. “I told myself I didn’t have time for this today but did I listen?”

 

“Of _course_ he’s not from Ironsaven. A bunch of morons we are. Who even came up with that conclusion? Banner?”

 

“Don’t look at me, I’m the one who found him half-dead in the forest, not the one who decided he’s from one of the town’s families. You should have said something, kid, really.”

 

Peter could hardly keep up with the quarrels being thrown back and forth between the three knights, the arguments appearing quite real this time. The only person who seemed to stay silent was the king himself, rubbing at the scruff on his chin with his thumb and forefinger, staring at the floor in patient thought as his knights ranted on.

 

“Well, what do you suggest we do? Lord knows how far we’d have to travel for this random lost kid. You better pray he’s from Asgard or somewhere close, because I am not traveling all the way to… I don’t know, _Wakanda_.”

 

Romanoff shook her head lightly at Rhode’s comment, her eyes trained on Peter. “Yeah I am one-hundred percent sure he’s not from the Kingdom of Wakanda.”

 

“I don’t care. Something must be done. Tony, you’re the one who wanted this taken care of–“

 

“Alright, relax, Rhodey, the kid hasn’t even told us where he came from.” Anthony was next to dart his eyes in Peter’s direction, positioning himself so he could discuss with the knights more directly. It looked like an attempt to close Peter away from the proximity of their voices, but that attempt obviously failed because the teen could hear the conversation quite clear.

 

“Okay, I’ll take this from here. Return to your normal duties and I’ll stay and talk to the kid, see if I could sort this out on my own, got it?”

 

All three nodded their heads curtly, and started back into the direction of the castle without further question, Sir Rhodes taking one last quizzical glance at Peter before heading off with the others.

 

King Anthony stood with arms crossed as he watched his friend’s shadows disappear into the winding crowd, leaving Peter to shift awkwardly beside the man as the other stood as still as ever, drawing in a deep breath before finally paying some attention to the apprentice at his side.

 

“Chilly, isn’t it? Winter can be a… well, a you-know-what, when it comes around, so it’s best to enjoy the sun while it lasts.”

 

Peter gave a small sound of agreement, his voice cracking slightly in his throat. He was undoubtedly bad at acting calm.

 

The king noticed this and hummed, nodding down at the boy in a concentrated manner, which only made him appear even more intimidating. He smacked his lips. “Why don’t you walk with me, kid, get the blood flowing. It won’t be so cold once you do.”

 

Peter did what he was told, and kept at the king’s side, walking at a much better pace than they had been before, his eyes mostly trained on either the ground or on one of the small merchant shops, focusing on all the ordinary things they were selling and trading there. As the man beside him hummed a subconscious tune, Peter could hear his fine black boots clicking lightly against the stone tiles beneath them as they both walked, mixed with the background bustle of the townspeople.

 

A carriage hurtled past Peter, causing him to jerk out of its path as the wheels bumped along mere inches away from him, so startled that he almost didn’t hear the king address him.

 

“So,” he began, “can you tell me what you were doing on the edge of Sanctum forest in the middle of the night all by yourself?” He appeared vaguely interested, his brown eyes shining in the streaming sunlight, bearing down on Peter, who drew a breath, deriving the most believable half-fib from his mind he could possibly find.

 

“Um, finding shelter, your majesty.” He bluffed, shuttering from the cold air ruffling his blouse. The king, for a moment, seemed rather perplexed.

 

“Shelter?” he questioned, “why so? Is your home too far to return to from here?”

 

Peter hesitated, a guilty presence clear on his expression. “No I… my mother and father passed a few weeks ago, and after their burial, I couldn’t stay there any longer so… so I left and traveled as far as I could until I could find somewhere to settle down. I didn’t know why I did it, I wasn’t thinking really, I-I could’ve–“

 

“Woah, hey, kid, stop right there,” Anthony interrupted, pausing in his tracks in the middle of the open path. Peter followed suit, staring up at the king in a quizzical manner. “I am… unbelievably sorry for your parent’s passing,” Peter almost started to feel guilty. The thing was, he wasn’t even sure if his real birth parents were even alive or not at this point. “but, you just up and left for the woods? Did you not have any relatives or at least someone else that you could go to?”

 

Peter shook his head with rather false innocence, prompting the man before him to rub the side of his face in dismay, his eyes trailing up to the heavens as if it beheld some sort of answer. “Alright, well, I guess I’ll have to get back to Pepper and ask her about getting a bedroom ready for this evening. Got no choice to at this point, really. How does that sound?”

 

Peter stifled a wispy sigh, because staying another night, even staying another minute in that beautiful castle admittedly did sound like something out of a dream come true. He hated these desires, he hated them so much, but if there was anything he could do to get home, he had to lay low and go along with whatever the king and his knights offered, even if it just so happened to be the son of the very tyrant who brought death to his people.

 

“Er, wonderful, your majesty,” he pretended to beam, trying his best to appear grateful even as his heart throbbed angrily in his chest in protest.

 

“Stark’s fine. Only my friends call me Tony and my subjects call me majesty, and as far as I know, you’re neither one of my subjects or my friends.”

 

“Oh! Okay, I’ll keep that in mind.” They started off again, continuing on the route into the direction of the awaiting castle as the crowds kindly dispersed in their passing.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	5. Gone

“ **U** ghh… Peter–“ The last time Stephen had heard the boy’s voice, he was babbling about water or some sort. He tried at calling him again, nearly half asleep while his voice barely penetrated his own ears. “Peter.”

 

Despite the sorcerer’s eyelids hardly allowing to open, he still attempted to sit himself up, his muscles straining slightly, but a voice from not far off protested his endeavor.

 

“Lay down, Strange, you’re in no shape to work yourself up.”

 

Stephen obeyed the voice with a grumble, slowly resting his weary head back onto his pillow and curling up almost instantly. He lay there for a short while until he realized that something was terribly off.

 

His eyes shot open, his entire body jerking upright from his previous spot on the bed.

 

“ _Wong?_ ”

 

The other sorcerer, relaxed in a nearby rocking chair with spellbook in hand, placed a forefinger against his lips and hissed a _shh_ , pointing crudely to a spot beyond Stephen’s shoulder, prompting him to divert his eyes to a spot on the rug across the room. There lay a familiar cervitaur child, curled up and sound asleep on the thin cotton rug.

 

“What… what is he doing here?” Stephen whispered by courteous instinct.

 

“We think he was the last person to see Peter last night, worried he hadn’t made it home, which he clearly hadn’t,” the sorcerer in the chair replied briskly. “He’s been here since last night, acting as a witness.”

 

Stephen had to forcefully blink open and close his eyes in order to get them to focus, his mind blurring ever more at Wong’s vogue explanation that hadn’t even had the time to reach his mind before the door to the bedroom opened with a revolting creak.

 

“Nothing. By the Seven Suns of Cinnibus, if I have to sacrifice _another_ strand of hair to conjure one more tracking spell I swear I’ll lose all of them by the end of the night. How far would one have to go to get _this_ _lost_? Unless you insist he got carried off to a dragon’s cave, Wong, I’m afraid–“

 

“Yes, good morning to you too Christine, my dear, but can someone please tell me what’s going on before I pass out again from overwhelming circumstances that I don’t understand?” Stephen’s voice was raised well over Christine’s own, overshadowing her outburst upon entering and had risen all too quickly from his bed. He swayed from the effort, but kept his stance as his sharp, pearly gaze bore across the room to the woman in the doorway, who was clearly frazzled from the cold atmosphere outside, even with the heavy-hooded royal blue cloak wrapped around her shoulders.

 

She rasped a sigh, her shoulders sinking in what appeared to be defeat. “Peter’s gone,” she reported blatantly.

 

The anger that came with the news wasn’t exactly new to Strange–Peter was always often doing reckless, unexplainable things that would put himself in danger and not to mention inconvenience his neighbors and fellow woodlanders–but there was a weight to it this time. Something Stephen feared he’d never hoped to witness in his life mentoring the boy. It clung to the back of his mind like a set of talons.

 

Stephen’s head reeled in and out of focus, forcing his legs to give in to sit down on the rim of the mattress which sank at his weight.

 

“I should have known,” the mage groaned, eyes buried tightly in his palms, “the boy can’t even go and retrieve a pot of water without getting himself into trouble.”

 

Out of the corner of his eye, Wong shut the spellbook in his hands and set it aside, rising from his chair. “So, he was out to retrieve from the well, you say,” he consulted, “that probably explains why there’s a cauldron filled to the brim with lukewarm water sitting on the floor in the main room.”

 

This statement alone exhorted Stephen to rise from his spot on the foot of the bed and streak past Christine who moved well out of the way of the door in order for the man to pass. Entering the main room, his eyes immediately fell upon the cauldron in question, and it indeed appeared as if it hadn’t been touched all night.

 

“Hm. So it seems he succeeded in doing the task he promised.”

 

Another groan shook Stephen. “He left the house late in the night right after I had returned from a mission. I was too weary from the fight to stop him.”

 

Wong lifted his chin to Christine who had, too, joined them in the room. “You checked the well in your search, did you not?”

 

“‘Did I check the well,’ uh, yeah, and every brick of it for that matter. Did you not believe me when I said I literally checked every inch of the forest?”

 

There was a trodding from the room Christine had last left through, and two small antlers popped into view from the doorframe along with a very dreary fawn who was rubbing at his half-closed eyes.

 

“You found him yet? Your floor isn’t very comfortable,” the boy yawned widely, his blue eyes blinking in the new light.

 

Stephen cupped a hand over his temple as if a migraine had just erupted. “No, Harley, why don’t you run home?”

 

A gust of air flared from the cervitaur’s muzzle and he crossed his arms tightly, trying to force the sleepiness away. “Because I wanna help find Pete. I was the last one who saw him, y’know.”

 

“And you’re not really helping with that are you?” Stephen countered strictly. “I’m sorry, Harley, but I’d rather not have an entire herd of centaurs at my doorstep babbling about their missing kid because we already have that problem of our own.”

 

“He says he last saw Peter in the forest with an empty cauldron,” Wong chimed in rather neutrally, “but he ran away when he heard howling and left Peter alone.”

 

Drawing in a quivering breath, Stephen squinted down at Harley. “You left him alone in the forest to fend for himself?” he bellowed.

 

The half-deer responded by digging one of his hooves into the wooden floor, threatening to chisel its fine surface. “What do you expect me to do? Get eaten by hellhounds? Because that’s not what I’m planning to do any time soon, thank you very much.”

 

“Well, unless you know why Peter bothered to transport an entire cauldron full of water across the dimensions but not _himself_ , then you are of no use to us and we want you home.”

 

Harley scoffed, his large ears flattening against his dirty blond tufts. “How should _I_ know why? I’m not some creepy wizard like you guys. And I’m also not dumb enough to be running at full speed through the forest so late at night. I had to tackle him to get his attention. He fell so hard that he dropped his weird magic ring in the process. He’s awfully easy to pin down, y’know. Did I tell you he almost _froze_ me to death?”

 

“Woah, woah, kid, back up!” Christine stepped in quite unexpectedly, “what did you say about a ring?”

 

Harley unfolded his arms to rummage through one of the pockets in his coat, hastily pulling out an all too familiar bronze two-finger ring. “This thing. He dropped it.”

 

Stephen wasted no time to pick the ring from between the fawn’s fingers, causing the boy to bleat a small ‘hey!’ Weighing the object in his hands, he stared at its intricate carvings, finding it awfully chilling to know that Peter had been without it.

 

“That can’t be a good sign, Strange.” Wong muttered, glaring at the small object in the man’s hands in turn. Stephen had to forcefully fight the bile that was rising in his throat in order to speak again, his teeth clenching with a might he could hardly bare in his energy-drained state.

 

“Why did you wait until now to tell us about this?” he seethed, his sharp eyes shunned away from the cervitaur and hyper-focused on what was left of his apprentice.

 

Harley only gave a curt shrug. “Forgot.”

 

The sorcerer’s ability to restrain himself from lashing out at that moment couldn’t be measured. Anger gripped his heart in every direction it could grab a hold of and fear creeped steadily down the length of his spine and through his tattered hands where the slingring trembled. It was nerve-racking to stand there, shaking, as lonely as it felt despite being surrounded by two of his trusted friends and an innocent young child who was unaware of the weight of his mistake, knowing in his sinking heart that Peter was out there with no way of finding home.

 

“Master Strange?” Harley questioned quietly, the shoulders of his coat tensing up to his drooping ears. “Sorry if I made you mad, I raise my voice a lot, when I’m tired especially, I guess. Hey, are you okay?”

 

He couldn’t stand there any longer. For every second that ticked by, Peter was out of reach of his safety and defense.

 

With hardly a sliver of hesitation, Stephen pocketed the slingring and retrieved his own, slipping it onto his quivering fingers. “Christine, take Harley home.”

 

He concentrated on the distinct spot in front of him and glided one of his hands through the air as one remained unmoving, a snarl coursing through his throat when the sparks didn’t obey. Lightheadedness surged through his mind, making him waver shamefully. He gave the spell up as soon as he attempted to start it, realizing just how much the previous mission had wracked the Master of the Mystic Arts. Even conjuring a portal was far too much for him.

 

He dropped his hands and stormed toward the front door, shoving it open until it ricocheted off of the outside wall, giving off a horrendous _bang_. The Cloak of Levitation, which barely had enough time to squeeze itself through the door, fastened onto Stephen’s shoulders as he stomped out, showing no sign of stopping even if the forest floor felt harsh on his jaded feet.

 

He speed-walked quite a few yards in the direction of the well Peter promised he’d go to, picking up the distinct sound of footsteps that told him that there was no doubt one of his friends had followed him. His suspicions were answered as he continued on through the path.

 

“Don’t place blame on the child, Stephen. He hardly knows better.” It was Wongs voice, reassuring Strange that Christine had remained back at the cottage to see to it that what he asked of her had been done.

 

“I know. I know I shouldn’t, but my apprentice is missing, Wong.” He reminded bitingly, his brows narrowed fiercely to the ground before him. “And in case you hadn’t realized, that has never happened to me before. To us before. Not in the ten years that I raised Peter. I don’t think you know the weight of the situation, Wong, so let me spell it out for you. If we don’t find him soon, I’ll never be able to forgive myself.”

 

“By the Vishanti, Stephen, get a hold of yourself.” Strange could imagine Wong struggling to catch up with him as he hastily increased his speed. “I know you’ve kept this vow to make sure no harm ever comes upon him, but he’s a smart kid, and you’ve taught him well. Wherever he is, surely he’s able to take care of himself until we find him.”

 

Stephen managed to slow his pace before whipping around to face the other sorcerer, eyes ever narrowed as Wong proceeded to slow his own pace. “And how do you suggest we do that? None of your tracking spells have been working, have they?”

 

A thoughtful expression befell Wong. “No, they have not. It’s quite odd, Christine’s skills in tracking reach every end of the forest.”

 

“Of the _forest_ , Wong?” Stephen questioned.

 

“And to the shores and both kingdoms,” the other confirmed, “but, Strange, you can't possibly suggest–“

 

“There’s only one thing that could block out a tracking spell, even from the most adept master. And it is that damned forcefield shielding the palace.”

 

“I wouldn’t jump to conclusions, now–“ Wong began, a hint of rare concern in his dark gaze.

 

Stephen clenched a fist, his eyes diverting to the distant kingdom beyond the acres, sheer hate rising in his throat. “Where else then? Have you ever thought of how far one can go on foot within one night, while it only takes hours by horse to reach Ironsaven?”

 

“That’s… an overly specific observation, Stephen.”

 

“I’m a very specifically observant man.” Strange faced Wong again, but the intensity in his gaze had been tainted with a hint of uncontrollable fear. “If there’s even the slightest chance that my boy is within the walls of that castle, then you better believe by all the gods in the universe that I will retrieve him. By myself if I have to.”

 

Wong gave a reluctant sigh, his arms now hanging at his sides. “Alright, Strange. Say he is somehow in the Castle of Ironsaven. They may have been the Sanctum Forest’s greatest enemy in the past, but don’t you think they’re more reasonable than to kidnap a lost child?”

 

Stephen scoffed. “I don’t know! I’ve made my decision, I’m going there.”

 

“And what will you do when you reach the palace, pray tell? They don’t just let anyone waltz through the gates, especially overly angry warlocks such as yourself.”

 

Stephen, for the first time that morning, took a moment to reevaluate the matter. The Sanctum Forest was full of woodlanders that were less than vengeful toward the kingdom, and would rather spend their valuable time sinking in the breeze of the glade than seeking revenge on the king and his nobleman and pondering the events of the war, especially since word got around that King Howard was no longer alive. Stephen himself had rather a neutral opinion on Ironsaven, wanting to forget about it like everyone else.

 

That is, until they took his apprentice from him.

 

“Guess I’ll have to do whatever it takes.”

 

Something just past Wong’s shoulder within the bark of an oak caught Stephen’s eye, and he slowly left his place on the frost-covered path to approach the altered tree. Within the trunks surface was a large symbol, magically engraved in the bark and glowing a bleeding red. He ran his slender fingers across the collection of lines and recognized it immediately as the symbol for the Followers of Dormammu.

 

“Well, to clarify, I’ll do whatever it takes to get Peter back within reason.”

 

Wong joined Stephen by the tree and, too, studied the symbol, his features darkening to that of resentment. “Those barbarians. Not only are they ruining our image, but our beautiful trees as well.”

 

Stephen straightened himself and, with the Eye of Agamotto, relieved the wood of the potentially damaging spell. Once the red engravings had dissipated, he scanned the other trunks to see if they, too, had become victims of the followers, and found himself thinking about the heathens themselves. How could he have forgotten about them so soon?

 

The Followers of Dormammu were a band of warlocks that were separate from the others, their primary source of magic being that of dark properties in favor of the transcendental demon Dormammu. They had gathered again after the war and claimed that their new goal was to wage unspoken, brutal revenge against the people of Ironsaven, both nobles and locals, and even after Howard’s passing. Nothing had been done by them besides their manipulative publicity and undercover planning of schemes, but their threats never go unheard; they will see to it that Ironsaven burns one day, innocent or not, and that could put a very bad name upon the woodlanders who simply want to live in peace, who long to rightfully see the contention at ease.

 

Once each tree in the vicinity had been looked over, Stephen managed to set the memory aside, as it was no longer worth the time lingering upon it. The silence that befell Strange prompted Wong to return to the previous topic.

 

“Stephen, if you really insist on going to Ironsaven, then I will not stop you.”

 

“Good. I wasn’t expecting you were planning on doing that anyway,” the other sorcerer declared, retrieving his ring once again to try his hand at another portal to the outskirts of Ironsaven’s anti-magic boundaries.

 

“However, I will see to it you are fully recovered before you depart.”

 

Stephen halted in place, guffawing at Wong’s claim. “Very funny, but I am perfectly fine as I am now, and I will not hesitate merely because I’m a tad under the weather.” The mage rotated his hands steadily and rather stubbornly through the air, grunting when no golden sparks heeded his motions, causing him to recall the memory of when he was a young apprentice again, barely able to cast a single gateway spell.

 

“A _tad_? You were saying?” Before Stephen could even process the sudden shift in scenery, the ground gave way beneath him, and with a shout, he fell roughly on his mattress, his head whirring heedlessly until he got the message that he had been utterly betrayed.

 

He glanced over to the other sorcerer who was now lounging in the same rocking chair he had sat in earlier that morning, his strictly crossed arms matching a very curt gaze that sneered “move and you’ll never see the light of day again”.

 

“Ergh… But, Wong, what about Peter?” Strange hissed, bitterly rubbing the spot on his back in which he rudely got dropped upon.

 

“Peter will be fine. You, on the other hand, look like your about to collapse into another reality. How do you expect to travel to the kingdom if you can’t even conjure a simple portal? You can barely stand on your own two feet to form one, no less.”

 

In Stephen’s hand formed an empty wooden goblet, soon filling on its own accord to the brim with fresh, cold water. He hadn’t realized just how dry his throat currently felt, so he gave himself a moment to gulp down as much as he could, sighing at how tense his muscles felt against his jaded, brittle-feeling bones. He was reluctant to confess that Wong had been right about his condition, and picking a fight with a troublesome warlock from a far off reality for hours on end took such a hard toll on him that he hardly realized it.

 

“If I can’t portal there, I suppose using my legs wouldn’t hurt.”

 

“In your state, yes it would. Greatly. It may be only three hours by horseback, but walking on foot would take twenty hours at least. Thirty of you plan on resting.” Wong clarified, treating Stephen with the same stern gaze.

 

“You portal me there then, I’ll have enough energy to walk the rest of the way at that point.” Strange countered, his eyes narrowed toward his friend.

 

“I will portal you there, but only when you’re capable of standing. Now, get some rest, or I’ll have to put you out myself.”

 

Stephen sat agape, glaring at his friend in sheer disbelief. “How long do you expect me to lay here in this bed all helpless for? A day?”

 

“I’d give it two, then I’ll provide you your precious transit straight to the village outskirts. Is that a deal?”

 

“Over my dead body.” Stephen snapped, his teeth clenching as much as his sore jaw could allow them to.

 

Wong nodded, his eyes hardly sparing the other mage a glance as he opened up the old spellbook once again. “Great. I’m glad we could come to an agreement.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Peter and Tony next few chapters. While you wait, I did make a playlist for this fic that I thought I’d share ;0  
> Here it is: it’s still being updated but I hope you enjoy  
> https://open.spotify.com/user/1295562472/playlist/76uDUiGilTsyFhfb81Dfqa?si=5HBRk8oGRcac-ohjAHqY2g


	6. The Barrier and Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *slams hand on table* The writers block is over! I know you’re sad! I’m here my children! Recovery time!!!

**P** eter was sure that if he had tiny good and bad consciences bickering over his shoulders, they’d be at each other’s throats for the entire walk back to the palace.

Because as much as Peter wanted to be in the Castle of Ironsaven right now, he _did not_ want to be in the Castle of Ironsaven right now.

Once again he was entering those large, heavily guarded, front entrance doors with the gate still risen. His eyes scanned the rather empty throne room for a second time, noticing that, although two out of three of them were currently unowned by any form of royalty, they shimmered as though the metal-based material had just been freshly mended. Albeit he wasn’t surprised of how clean-kept everything was. Even the high-rising marble archways didn’t seem to bear a single speck of dust.

Greeting them at the door was a very tall, finely dressed gentleman with large piles of scrolls and parchment stuffed in his arms. He all but ran across the large room to meet the king halfway, carping features prominent on his face.

“Your Majesty, before you proceed to your expected rounds out to the border, I must inform you that Sir Captain Rogers desires to reschedule your meeting on the training grounds to tomorrow afternoon. I’m aware this notice is rather short, but surely he–“

“That’s just fine Jarvis.” Stark waved a confirming hand at him, a small smile gracing his features, “and there’s no need to go rushing to me about it, those meetings are never urgent and I’m late to just about all of them anyways.”

The man named Jarvis conceded a slight grimace the moment he got a glimpse of Peter, sliding the reaction aside with a sharp inhale through his teeth. He inched a bit closer to the king. “Er, Sire,” he said in a hushed whisper, “isn’t that the boy you were to take home this morning?”

Peter suppressed the urge to roll his eyes, and stopped to realize that Jarvis had not come alone but was followed by another, much smaller person; a little girl who appeared to be only a few years younger than himself. She wore a simple blue dress with white trim and her black hair was cut short to her shoulders, light freckles dotting her bright face. She was holding a single scroll in her hands in contrast to Jarvis with his many, remaining close behind him as if doing so was her sworn daily agenda.

“Yes, well, we have a slight issue, if you will. Turns out the kid’s a homeless orphan and is in need of a fresh chamber. Speaking of which, could you inform Lady Potts and her chambermaids to prepare one as soon as possible?” Stark replied to the man while walking past him to the middle of the throne room, causing Jarvis to shift the position of his many scrolls and catch up with his swift strides.

“Of course, Sire, the guest wings I presume?”

The king appeared to think for a moment, then answered with a _tsk_ , “The Noble Wing wouldn’t hurt, would it? Hardly any of them are occupied, so I say why not.”

The taller man looked as if he just heard the king speak in tongues. “B-but Your Highness, isn’t the Noble Wing for the royal family only?”

“Yes, but the thing is, Jarvis, there is only one member of the royal family currently in this kingdom, and you are looking at him, so I don’t see anything wrong with touching one of them up for.. a mere boy, that I’m sure would do no harm. Just this one time. Come on, I’m feeling generous today.”

Jarvis still didn’t seem at ease, and stared at the king incredulously. Beside the man–and rather unexpectedly–the little girl cleared her throat loudly, earning the king’s attention. “Of course, Your Majesty, we’ll see right to it on getting a room for our guest.” She smiled radiantly, exaggerating each word just a bit louder than Jarvis as she held the scroll neatly behind her back, looking as peachy as ever.

Stark brightened. “At a girl, Fridia!” he simply beamed, “you’re shaping up to be a fantastic royal advisor! Keep it up and you might just out do Jarvis!”

Jarvis sputtered, but barely uttered a word before Stark continued nonchalantly. “So I presume our conversation has settled, and if there’s no other business to discuss, I expect that room to be nice and ready by the time I get back.”

The royal advisor–and the advisor in training–offered the king a small bow before heading off toward the wing in which Lady Potts was surely still at work in the healing chambers. The king hummed thoughtfully, taking a glance back down to the boy who remained beside him.

“Oh, yeah, so as for you…” he framed his chin with his thumb and forefinger again in brief thought. “I guess all you could do is join Pepper and stick by her side until your room is prepared, if that’s surely the best place to put you for the time being, just while my kingsman and I run a quick search round until early evening.“

Peter was about to give in to the king’s direct instructions until he was hit with the sudden unspoken opportunity. _He’s going to the border._

“Er, excuse me sir, you’re going to the border? As in where the magic forcefield stands?” he recalled.

Stark shot him a quizzical stare, with no doubt a hint of pleasant surprise. “Huh, I wasn’t sure you knew about that, you being from a whole different place entirely and all. But, yes, that’s where we’re going. Why do you ask?”

Peter’s hopes soared straight to the sky for the second time that day. Maybe there was a slim chance he could tag along and then ditch the kingsmen to find Wong, who lives relatively close to said border. If there had to be a ticket out in all the lucky chances the universe would grant him, this had to be it.

“Well, I was hoping I could come with!” Peter blurted out almost urgently. The king reacted quite taken aback, staring at the young mage with knitted brows.

He hesitated. “Wow, kid, uhm…” he hesitated, as if he took the time to think about how to give an easy, harmless answer, but he gave up too soon and simply answered with a resounding– “No.”

Peter gaped, suddenly feeling downright hurt even when the king had every right to turn him down. “Why not?” he bickered, as if Master Strange had just rejected his request to teach him a dangerously advanced spell.

“Look kid, I met you, what, twenty minutes ago? It would have been five if you just told us where you lived in the first place.” Peter still felt strangely guilty about wasting all of those knight’s time, but even so, he continued to stare unswayed at the king. “I just see no reason to take you on a border round, the trip isn’t really that quick and easy either.”

Peter’s breath searched desperately for any pleadings he could find, having at any chance he can to deliver him to that border. “Please, Sir, I don’t want to bother Miss Potts any more than I already have. I’ll be good I promise! I really want to go, and I need fresh air after that fall, and plenty of it. It really did a number on me, I’ll–“

Stark pinched the bridge of his nose as Peter rambled on hastily, his eyes shut tight as if a migraine was starting. “Okay kid, stop. Stop.” He chided, sucking in a deep breath irritably–he tended to have this effect on adults.

Peter was running out of options, so just as the clearly peeved ruler was thinking of something to bite back, Peter put on the best pouting face he could possibly muster, something that worked on Strange nearly every time, but yet again, Strange _was_ Peter’s lifelong parental guardian and not someone he just met twenty minutes ago, so a successful outcome was slim.

Once he caught the king’s eye, he almost instantly looked confounded, as if the pouty-face of a fourteen year old was the most unexpected thing he could ever pray witness to. The exchange quickly turned into a staring contest, Peter bearing the same pleading face–enhanced, even–while Stark countered it by crossing his arms tightly with his lips forming into a frown as if saying ‘this isn’t going to work’, but his tense silence said otherwise. The king’s mouth continued to twitch until he broke.

“Ugh, fine! Whatever–you can come! Just… _never_ do that face again, _God_.”

A sudden sense of accomplishment swept Peter and he had to resist his urge to pump his fist into the air and appear overexcited. The king’s self cursing echoed through the forest of white marble pillars as he strode tensely across the throne room. He lead the apprentice opposite of the gated doors and down one of the very long hallways, which Peter didn’t expect, but thought better of it than to ask any unneeded questions, not wanting to push the king further.

They reached a set of doors at the end of the long elegant hallway which opened up to the sunny exterior, a breeze seeping in through the opened crack as two guards wordlessly pushed it agape. Peter had no patience waiting for them to open fully before sneaking through the now open space and gleefully welcoming the outside air.

A musty smell hit him upon entering, and he had to resist the urge to cover his mouth out of politeness. On either side of the grand doorway filed two rows of stables, all covered by overhanging roofs and each big enough to be the size of his own bedroom back at the cottage. He wasn’t the only one there, as there were quite a few kingsman–two being Banner and Rhodes and one woman he didn’t recognize–and one stable boy that all had been there before him.

Peter slowed his pace to gaze upon the stables, observing as almost each and everyone of them held horses of every size and color. His eyes held wide in wonder, so curious that he hardly noticed Stark’s guards ushering out a steed from behind him, and a very large one at that. It was no wonder it was the king’s go to, as it was elegant in every way; pitch black in color save for the collection of white spots on its flank as well and long flowing strands of hair.

The horse was quickly equipped with a saddle and reins, Stark stroking the far side of its face as the guards readied the horse for riding. Peter felt a surge of urgency. “Which one am I riding?” he pressed.

Stark patiently collected himself and greeted Peter with a look that was just too strained to seem genuinely welcoming.

“You will be _accompanying_ Sir Banner,” he stated out to him slowly, as if he were speaking to a young child, “on, um, stall fifteen.” He snapped his fingers twice and pointed further down the row of stables, prompting the guards to leave him at once to open stall fifteen where Peter recognized Banner standing.

Peter followed the stable guards to the horse awaiting in the stall, looking over their shoulders curiously to what his could possibly look like. What was lead out of the stable door, Peter didn’t quite expect. It was smaller, light brown in color with a shorter, dreadlocked blonde mane with a tail that matched, not as close to as majestic as Stark’s shining stallion.

This, of course, Peter hardly cared about. He practically leapt for joy, coming closer to the horse in hopes not to scare her, and carefully reaching out to stroke her face as the guards equipped her for riding.

“She’s perfect! Wow, look at you.” he gawked, his excitement allured by an amused king. “What’s her name?”

“Meet Kei Ren. She’s the baby, so careful with her.” Stark cautioned.

Peter gave him a confirming nod, returning to gently stroke the front of the horse’s face. “Hi Karen!” he said softly.

Just then, like the clouds uncovering the sun, the man beside him threw his head back in a hearty laugh, resulting in a confused yet hopeful glance from the boy.

“Peter that’s not–“ he continued to chuckle, hiding half his face with a hand. “Whatever, whatever. Call her what you want.” The king attempted to clear the fit out of his throat as Sir Rhodey approached from the sidelines, bringing his arms up to cross them and shooting Stark a questioning glare.

“So. Bringing the kid, I see.” Stark shrugged incoherently as if he wasn’t sure himself of his decisions.

“I tried, I really did!” he confessed, lowering his voice to a whisper, “If you want to kick him off the patrol, fine by me, but he’s got Puppy Eyes not even I can surpass.”

 

Sir Banner, for one, seemed to be the only royal unbothered by Peter’s rather energetic presence on the simple yet tedious journey, relaxed and even courteous as Peter climbed up to take a seat on Karen’s saddle behind the patient knight. The man offered a silent arm as Peter was hoisted onto the mare’s back, wobbling a bit by the lack of comfort.

Once settled, Peter tried to adjust to the new and odd feeling, shifting every so often as Karen lingered at the tail end of the group, breaking into a trot. At this pace, Peter’s rather slim form gave into an uncontrollable bounce, reminding him of a distinct moment in his youth when Harley’s family would humor him in centaur-back rides here and then. The only difference was that he was five at the time. Having the same experience at his current age and height would be… awkward, in the least.

Peter plagued the thought and focused on the road ahead as the party, again, entered through town.

This time, the path they took was a quieter way through, taking the roads closer to the edge of the village where less of the bustle of town resided. To pass the time, Sir Banner quietly told Peter about the central town square, or Feravel Square, as it was called, where seasonal festivals were typically held and was presumably the perfect place to view the grand balcony where the king or one of his men occasionally announced important matters, events and disclosures.

Peter was curious to see it himself, but he was hardly sure he’d return at all depending on the success of his intentions.

Tony’s mighty black horse lead the small parade through the outskirts of the town, causing Peter to perk up a few inches in order to seek out Wong’s familiar hut, soon realizing that they were only still on the far north side of the town, and were heading steadily out of range and toward the thin edge of the forest. The apprentice cursed in his mind, crouching back down behind Sir Banner’s back impatiently so he could focus on a new plan of any kind.

He could jump off the horse and run, but there was no doubt all eyes were on him, not to condemn him but more so to protect him from the expected dangers of the woods, and to outrun the elite and stable horses would come close to impossible.

He could very well take off with Karen the moment Banner had the chance to dismount, but there was no prayer on Earth or in the Dark Dimension he could possibly ride a horse without experience of any kind. Plus, he’d feel immense and lasting guilt in stealing Karen away from the preoccupied king and his men.

“We’ve got a little while before we reach the boundaries, Peter. You doing alright back there?” Banner’s voice snapped the teen out of his speculations, making him sputter a good deal before putting together an adequate answer.

“Fine, fine.” He mumbled, eyes scanning the browning grass below. His gaze shot up again as another idea blessed has conscience, almost as if the knight himself prompted it.

“Hey, sir? So how does the barrier work?”

Bruce only gave him quizzical gaze, pleading many unasked questions.

“The magic one. Or the anti-magic one, rather. I’m just curious of how Lady Potts can perform her elven healing magic if it should repel it?”

Banner nodded in understanding, now eager to clarify the boy’s curious suspicions. “Ah, of course. Well, it’s quite simple really. You see, magic can work freely inside and outside of it, just not _through_ it. It’s hollow, so to say.”

“Hollow?” Peter echoed, cocking an eyebrow that pleaded more elaboration.

“Yes. It’s sort of like a solid dome or a really high wall, but for powerful magical energies. If you were to throw a–I don’t know a rock–at the dome, no matter which side you were on, it would bounce right off, while having the ability to throw it anywhere else you may please.”

Peter nodded, humming thoughtfully before picking up a disgruntled huff from Rhodey not too far in front of them. He shot the two conversational followers a glare, making it clear that he wasn’t too pleased in what Banner was giving away.

Bruce seemed to ignore the silver-clad man’s strict gaze, but Peter lowered his voice to spare him the suspicion.

“But, how did they cast the spell in the first place? Wasn’t it created to keep magic users out of the kingdom?” the mage asked in a hushed tone.

“Yes, the king–Anthony’s father, to be clear–came to despise magic used by the woodlanders, as it was used against him, but there was one magic user in his alliance from a neighboring kingdom, if you’re familiar with Asgard...”

Peter’s breath hitched for a beat. He was more than familiar with the name, as well as the two brothers who ruled there. He also happened to know, through Stephen, that one of the brothers was born with the gift of magic; a completely rare phenomenon, as most human magic users had to study and learn the art on their own, just as he did.

He wasn’t certain, but he came to guess at that moment that the Prince of Mischief must have been paid, bribed or maybe even forced to cast the forcefield spell, one sufficient enough to keep out teleportation, tracking access or any extendable spell at any time. It seemed reasonable enough, but for Howard to forge a hate towards transcendental power only to then use it for his own good… it sounded so corrupt.

There was a clearing of the throat from Sir Rhodes, loud and sharp enough to drag the boy from his discomforting thoughts. “If you’re done giving away all of our secrets, I think it’s about time we search the premises now.”

Peter blinked, realizing that they were now much closer to the thin outline of the Sanctum Forest’s trees and Stark’s steed had slowed to a calm walking pace, it’s head thrashing lazily. Almost all at once, all three knights began to dismount, leaving Peter with the extra space on the saddle after Bruce stepped from the stirrup down to the lushness of the forest ground.

“Stay here with Kei Ren until we’ve done a sufficient search around, this won’t take long.” Peter nodded as the knight seemed to take his attention off of him to join the two men, who were already scanning the stretch of trees and leaving their horses to graze.

Peter observed mindlessly as Anthony was already stomping up to one of the tree’s trunks, complaining right off the bat about something that was wrong with its surface. As this unfolded, Peter carefully and silently swung one of his legs over one side of the saddle, inching little by little off of Karen’s back as to not draw attention to himself. He kept his eyes steady on the three men, watching and hoping that none of them would notice his exit in the range of their otherwise diverted vision. He snuck soundlessly from Karen to the shadow of Stark’s midnight steed, eyes flashing for a spell to the lush and darkly lit shade of the forest he called home. He drew in a silent breath, once again checking the party of royals one last time for good measure. Not one of them seemed to have moved an inch.

He took this as a chance to break for it.

As unfamiliar as this side of the forest was, Peter’s eyes searched heedlessly across the thick sea of endless trees, hoping he’d find anything he knew as recognizable. Dodging vines and roots as they came, Peter began to feel more and more hopeless, all at once, losing the motivation to keep pace and slowing to a staggering halt. His eyes stretched wide as he gazed upon the tall trees above, branches penetrating from every direction against the clouded sky. If there was anything he was sure about, it was that there was no way he could make it home from here all on his own.

He jolted at a sound he couldn’t identify, but startled him enough to whip around in a panic. His heart calmed again when he saw the dusty brown coat of Karen, following up the boy with her head low to the ground, sniffing at the frosty growth.

Peter gravitated toward the mare, grateful that she showed no sign of shying away as he gently stroked at the tangled, dreaded strands her mane. As he ran another hand down the length of her snout, he gazed off into the depths of the forest, eager to find a patch of sky or any sign of a peaceful meadow. All he saw were trees and trees and nothing but, holding Karen’s head closer and fighting back a lump in his throat and feeling as though he might cry.

All at once, the potential tears stinging in his eyes dried as he conceived a butterfly floating soundlessly nearby, small and dull in color, but remindful enough of the power he invested and controlled.

Weren’t they on the other side of the barrier?

Peter stepped away from Karen and steadied into a level stance, filling his lungs with air and closing his eyes as he felt his heart slow. He plucked a single hair from his head, wincing at the feeling that resonated, and held it in his palm. He channeled his power, absorbing the atmosphere and winds of the forest to rein in harmony with the core of his being, pulling and pulling on the energy around him. He opened his eyes and power sparked from his hands like embers, flickering and winding around the single strand of short hair as he focused to shape it. Taking another breath, he cast his hands outward and the strand dissolved into the air, and as suddenly as it did, a thin, golden line etched itself into the forest floor, starting from Peter’s feet and snaking around roots and bushes to somewhere beyond the mage’s line of vision.

His heart bloomed at the sight, a smile spreading on his face as he moved his hands again, drawing a symbol in the air in front of him that he could seldom remember. Triumph swelled in his chest as the symbol glowed in his success, moving and forming into a circular ring before him.

Peter gawked at the sight as the ring clouded, bringing up a foggy yet barely perceivable image of what the golden line had been cast to lead to.

What appeared was the cottage Peter had come to miss dearly, showing an empty kitchen before him, prompting Peter to swipe a hand across the image to see another view. Next came his bedroom, then the fireplace, then Master Strange’s room, which Peter was more than ecstatic to find activity in.

Strange was lying peacefully under his covers with his face turned away, but even from this angle was his graying hair undefyable. The warlock seemed cared for, relaxed, with food and water perched on his nightstand and one thousand times less tense than when Peter last found him. And if the apprentice wasn’t relieved enough, he found Wong himself, not at his hut after all, but lounging in a rocking chair close to Stephen’s bed with a tome levitating close to his face, keeping an eye on the recovering mage.

A choked sound broke from Peter’s throat as he stared at the image, all but speechless as he caressed his jaw with his palm in additional comfort.

Master Strange was alright. Miles and miles away from him, sure, but alright. _Safe_ , even. _Recovering_.

His legs felt frozen down to the arches of his feet, and he was almost mindless of Karen as he kept his eyes unaverted on the tracking spell’s visuals, blinking rapidly in hopes that it was real, and very real it was.

He reached a quivering hand out to the ring and traced his thumb along its edge, drawing in a confident breath.

 _I’m coming home_. He promised. _No matter how far I must go, I will find a way._

Another sound burst from behind him, and discovering that it had not been Karen that made the new noise, his stomach took a dive. Swiping again at the ring before him, the vision disappeared, and the golden line disintegrated just as quickly, thankfully not leaving a single trace. With the spell now hidden, Peter rose to his tiptoes and held his hands behind his back, filling his cheeks with air and holding his breath as he prepared for yet another round of confrontation, hoping to the Gods whoever was coming wouldn’t suspect a single thing other than a teenager causing less than harmless mischief in the woods.

Just as he expected, Rhode’s face appeared from behind the tangled mess of trees, looking more annoyed even from a distance than Peter had yet to see him. The knight picked up the pace the moment he saw the boy, brows creasing even more upon seeing that Karen had been with him. Peter stood unmoving as Rhodey stopped abruptly in front of him, eyes writhing with confusion, and Peter watched carelessly as the man blinked at him, clearly searching for conceivable words to throw at the apprentice.

“What are you doing here?” he queried in a huff, eyes squinting down at the teen before him.

Peter simply shrugged, his hands clasped behind his back, clammed in sweat. “Mm, nothing, just exploring.” He stammered slightly, adrenaline and nerves lacing his tone.

He heard the royal curse under his breath, grabbing Karen by the reins and pulling her closer toward him, clearly agitated. “Sweet Moses, kid, I’m gonna have your skin one of these days if you do that again. Hurry up, would you, then maybe I’ll change my mind about it.”

The knight steered Karen back to which they came, gladly conforming to his lead, eager to return back into the open air. Peter released the breath he had been holding, his lungs aching from the waves of stress flowing through them. He followed Rhodey back through the forest, feeling his eyelids start to droop and he relished to climb back onto the saddle and ride back to Ironsaven, just to sink into the mattress of one of the castle’s many cozy chambers and think about his troubles some other time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The ending’s kind of rushed, I’ll tweak it later if I decide to. I’m also editing post-updating so Hang Tight. Also Instagram change!!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for the read! Leave a kudos and comments are always a motivation boost ^^
> 
> contact me: malibubandit| ig


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